Major Arcana
by Fever Dream
Summary: Veda Lavellan searches for answers after the painful end of her affair with Solas. She soon discovers that she is in peril of more than just a broken heart: Solas is on a mission that may lead to catastrophic consequences for the Inquisition and all of Thedas. Is there a way to prevent her former lover from becoming her nemesis? Chapters are based on Tarot card themes.
1. The Fool

**The Fool Card: **_The youth gazes to the sky, even as he nears the cliff's edge. His hand grasps a flower. His dog prances joyously beside him - or is his bark an unheeded warning? The white sun stares blankly down. It may be an empty beginning or a sublime fulfillment. Zero or infinity._

* * *

Veda Lavellan crossed her arms over her chest, shivering. Moments before, she'd barely noticed the cold mist rising over the waterfalls or how the Veil rippled over her skin, light caresses turned teasing and cruel.

She listened to Solas' footfalls receding into the distance, holding her breath until she was certain he was out of earshot. Only the ancient stone halla would see her tears.

She was a fool. A damned fool. She'd heard the warnings, the ones Solas had given her each time they'd drawn closer. She'd dismissed them all, because he said she was special and somehow, she thought she could be special enough to change his mind, to change everything.

Veda had been expecting another end to this story when Solas had taken her hand and guided her to this secluded grotto with its romantic vista. When he laid his hand upon her cheek and told her how much she'd come to mean to him, she'd anticipated that, here, at last, all the gentle words and torrid embraces were going to find their fulfillment. She imagined they'd make love on the grass with the rush of the cascades singing in their ears, that all the fantasies they'd indulged only in the Fade would at last come true in the flesh.

"For now," Solas said, "the best gift I can offer is the truth..."

Another man would have given her flowers or some pretty bauble to string around her neck. But she had chosen him – although at times, it seemed less of a choice than an imperative, she wanted him so badly.

Others might not have understood it. Solas had a gentle nature but he was opinionated, sometimes caustic. He wielded his intelligence with keen precision, like a surgeon with a scalpel, cutting even as he tried to heal. He was older than her, too, by at least decade, perhaps more. Sometimes it felt like a hundred centuries more, and so it was hard to take much offence when he called her dal'en and spoke to her as if he was the Keeper and she, his newly elected First.

His starkly bald head and well-worn clothes didn't adhere to convention either, yet after a few hours in his company, other men seemed vacuous and bland, without distinction. She thought his eyes were the most piercing she'd ever looked upon and she gladly would have spent an afternoon admiring the resolute line of his jaw or counting the faint freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose.

It hadn't mattered to her that Clan Lavellan would've found Solas as thoroughly unsuitable for her as the Orlesian court did. Even at Skyhold, they'd had to keep their affair quiet. If people were willing to accept an elven Inquisitor, it was at least in part because her advisors were humans with respectable lineages and good Chantry backgrounds. No one outside of her inner circle knew much at all about her elven apostate Fade advisor. Even inside that small orbit, she knew many of them were uncomfortable with the idea that he was teaching her about more than simply how to close Fade rifts.

All she knew was that, once Solas was there, it had been impossible to contemplate giving her heart to another... and he'd been there, guiding her, from before she'd awakened in Haven with the mark embedded in her hand.

It'd come together so readily that it'd seemed like destiny. Circumstance had thrust them together and created a sense of fellow-feeling, then of understanding and friendship. They were both elves in a place overrun with humans, both apostates caught in the grip of the Chantry and its dogma. Seeking his company had seemed natural...then inevitable.

If there had been any choice in the matter, it had been a fool's choice. A fool's dream. A fool's unquestioning faith in the lies of her ancestors. She had chosen Solas with as much caution and sense as she'd chosen the vallaslin that had once masked her face.

Solas told her what the markings had meant in the days of Arlathan.

The pain she'd endured as they etched the vallaslin under her skin had been for naught. For less than naught. The markings on her face were but an echo of a past where her ancestors had been slaves, thralls to the elven gods as they would later be to the magisters of Tevinter, as now they were to a history they couldn't remember, let alone understand. The Dalish had vowed never to be slaves again, and yet they still were, if only to prejudice and to ignorance.

"Then cast your spell," she told him. "Take the vallaslin away."

"Sit."

At first, Veda had been unable to meet his gaze. It'd seemed easier to look down and away, as he readied the magic, his eyes intent upon her marked face.

After this, there would be no going back. As accepting as they were, even Clan Lavellan wouldn't understand her decision. If she tried to explain, they'd think she had lost her mind. To take the word of an outsider over that of their Keeper, the woman who'd nurtured her magic, who'd chosen her as their First. Even if they didn't shun her, they would not believe and they would never follow her.

Tendrils of pale blue light emanated from Solas' hands. His fingertips grazed over her skin, brushing over her chin, her lips, the curve of her cheekbones...

She looked up then and his face was a revelation. There was pride and pain and such unspeakable tenderness in it and all at once, she knew that even if they ripped off all their clothes and re-enacted every scenario they'd played out in dreams with such yearning, she would never be more naked to him than this.

"Ar lasa malla revas. You are free."

Free. The word held beauty in it, but also the promise of loss and struggle. She'd relinquished her past. Her future was an unwritten page.

He'd helped her back to her feet, inspecting his handiwork with a faint smile. Veda would've liked a mirror to see it for herself, but for now, his eyes were her mirror. The image that shone back at her was love, and it was a vision to behold.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured and she could believe that he saw her that way, despite her scars, her mistakes, her countless imperfections. Perhaps because of them too.

Solas leaned forward, his lips melting into hers, his hand sliding down the small of her back, to the curve of her ass, as he drew her still closer. She felt his desire, not only in the urgency of his kiss, but in the jut of his erection straining against those wonderfully snug deerskin trousers.

_It's going to happen_, she thought. Just as it was meant to. _In body as we have been in mind and in spirit._

He started to ease her down to the cavern floor and she was ready to surrender – then, all at once, he pulled back. There was distance in his eyes where once there'd been so many promises.

"And I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again."

His voice was empty, as drained of emotion as if he'd been made Tranquil.

She couldn't breathe. He'd plunged a dagger into her chest and all she could do was bleed for him. The pain was so raw that dignity meant nothing. She begged him not to leave her. She told him she loved him. Whatever else she left out must have been all too evident from her ragged voice and the tears glimmering in her eyes.

All he could muster up in reply was "Please, vhenan," as if her feelings were an embarrassment. He claimed she had "a rare and marvellous spirit" - no true compliment, because if she was so rare, so marvellous, he wouldn't have been running in the other direction.

"In another world," he said, as if that would offer some comfort_._

"Why not this one?" she pleaded.

Solas lifted his hands, as if to fend her off, although she wasn't reaching for him. "I _can't. _I'm sorry."

His face was a mask of pain. He turned his back on her and walked away, shambling, almost limping, in his retreat. Usually, his walk held a measured grace, a quiet but unmistakable confidence.

It hurt her to see him like that. It was like watching an animal that had gnawed its leg off to escape a trap. She'd been the trap.

That was how it ended. That was the culmination of all those lingering looks and stolen kisses, those endless walks circling the tiny perimeter of Skyhold's garden, discussing history and magic and the Beyond.

That was the end of afternoons in hidden away in the cobwebby little reading room in the fortress' east wing, quiet with the books and with their thoughts, with only his breathing, his hand enveloping hers as reminders that she wasn't alone.

Never again would she venture to the peculiar rotunda he'd staked out for himself and find him painting; never again would she hold his brushes and keep him company as the lines took shape on the walls and became recognizable figures, scenes from the battles they'd fought or the choices she'd made as Inquisitor.

How desperately she'd wanted to be distracted from her duty and how grateful she'd been when he'd offered an escape into dreams and memories captured within the Fade like dewdrops glistening on a spiderweb. It'd been so easy to fall in love with him after that and to fall in love with the feeling that at least one person saw her and wanted her for who she was, not as the Inquisitor or the herald of some cloying Chantry prophetess.

Veda wasn't sure how long she lingered in that place, huddled on the damp grass, sobbing as if she intended to compete with the waterfalls. It must have been a long time, because they'd set off for the grotto when the sun was still high in the sky and now a velvety dusk was settling over the waterfall and the stone hallas. Faint glimmers of snowflakes danced beyond the mists.

As she trudged back to Skyhold, the snow began to pelt down on her, flakes sticking in her hair. The wind whipped against her face and the plaintive howls of a wolf pack echoed through the mountain pass.

She remembered the hopeless trek after the avalanche at Haven, how the cold had sunk deep into her bones and she'd started to believe that she would freeze out there and be buried under a shroud of ice. For a time, the cries of the wolves had been the only thing keeping her going, the only thing that had made her feel less abandoned and utterly alone.

It was much easier to find the Inquisition now. Skyhold towered over the icebound landscape, its banners and flags flapping in the storm, recognizable even from afar. If Veda felt lost, it wasn't snow blindness, but the chill that had settled upon her heart and cut her off from everything that had once been her comfort.

She was another person. Not First of the Keeper. Not Dalish. Not Lavellan. Not loved.

Free, perhaps, but free to be alone.

When she went back into Skyhold's great hall, some would hardly recognize her. Those who did know her would see that she was broken, bare-faced and frozen to the bone, not the clear-headed leader they needed to face Corypheus and his armies.

Josephine fell in step with Veda nearly the moment she passed through Skyhold's gates.

"Inquisitor, there's a matter I've been meaning to - "

The ambassador glanced up from her clipboard with its endless notes and figures and did a most undiplomatic double-take, nearly upsetting her candle from its stand. "What happened to your face? I mean, your markings..."

"Why don't you ask Solas?"

"I see. I'm sorry to have inquired."

Veda sighed. "I'm sorry, too. It's just not a good time to ask. Another time, it will be easier. But you had another matter for me – what is it?"

She listened as patiently as she could as Josephine summarized a feud between two of their noble guests over order of precedence in the dining hall. It would fall to her to decide which of the two should sit closer to the Inquisitorial seat at table.

Veda managed to keep herself from cutting in until Josephine began working her way through their various family connections and distinctions in extensive – some might say, excessive - detail.

"Which one is less of a pompous ass?"

Josephine frowned at her notes. "I should say the Baron of the Seridoux, but..."

"Has he ever called me a rabbit? Or compared my ears to knives?"

"No, it's just that he has considerably less influence than..."

"Give him his petty victory. We have better things to do than play these Orlesian games."

Josephine gave her a cautionary look. "These 'Orlesian games' are what have gained the Inquisition such influence. I'm well aware they can be bothersome, but it would be best not to dismiss them out-of-hand."

"You and Leiliana are far better at this than I am. I know you'll do what you must to placate the nobility. I just - at the moment, I'm not feeling up to any great feats of Andrastian charity. Chalk it up to my being an ignorant elven savage."

"Ignorant elven -" Josephine was too flustered to spit out the last bit of the insult. "Where did you hear this? At the Ball?"

"I eavesdropped on a lot of talk at the Ball. Some of it was relevant to our mission. Some of it was less so."

The whispered slurs were actually less galling than the casual prejudice. First, there was the cruel irony of the Orlesians dancing and feasting at Halamshiral, once the last hope of her people. After that came the noble lady who greeted her with a cry of "Rabbit!" and tried to dispatch her in quest of a missing ring carelessly dropped while tossing caprice coins in the fountain. A little later, there'd been the Empress' herald introducing her lover as her "elven serving-man" and still worse, the way she and Solas and the whole Inquisition had been forced to smile and pretend it was so.

That last deception had made the nobles like her better. It pleased them to think she kept elven servants, just as they did. Somehow, it made her look taller in their eyes and rounded out the points of her ears. They imagined she was happy to dance and gossip with humans in the vain mockery they'd made of her people's ruin.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Josephine said. "Considering the circumstances, we thought it came off quite well."

"It was better than I'd expected. In truth, I thought they might have lured us there to assassinate me, so insults were a pleasant surprise." Veda said. "If it's any comfort, elves are just as bad. Perhaps we're worse. We're hypocrites into the bargain."

"Inquisitor, I don't understand. You never felt this way before. What happened? What changed?"

"It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have said anything. I'll be better tomorrow. Perhaps the Inquisition can wait until then?"

"Yes, certainly. It's just...we will need to tell them something about the change to your face."

Josephine was right, of course. Both their allies and their enemies would want an answer. If they didn't get one, they were bound to assume the worst. Perhaps they'd guess blood magic or demonic possession if they were fearful of the Inquisition's pact with the mages. If they were looking for a more down-to-earth answer, they might spread rumours that she'd been spirited away and replaced with a look-alike from a Valle Royaux alienage.

"You know what they'll want to hear. The work of the Maker and all that. Let them think it was a miracle."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Before Sola had stopped, before he'd turned away, it could've been... miraculous. But it was over now, whatever she'd believed, however much faith she'd had in their connection.

"As you say, Inquisitor." Ever polite, Josephine dropped a curtsy before taking her leave.

Veda mounted the stairs up to the Great Hall two at a time.

When she reached the vestibule, the dwarven mason, Gatsi, turned to gape at her. An Antivan contessa gasped and dropped her fan. Dozens of eyes locked on her face and it was all she could do to keep her head down and continue walking amidst the murmurs of the court.

At last, Veda made it to the stairwell leading up to her quarters. Each stair she climbed brought her closer to the refuge of her room, where she could draw the bed curtains, curl up under the warmth of the blankets and escape the stares and the inevitable demand for answers.

Upon entering, she saw garlands of flowers trailing over her desk. Pink and purple petals lay scattered over the floor like confetti.

Some small, hopeful part of her wanted to believe that this might be Solas' idea of an apology. Upon further inspection, she knew better. Solas wouldn't have known to leave breadcrumbs on her balcony because she liked to hear birds sing in the morning. It would never have occurred to him to tuck a glass halla under her pillow because it was similar to a toy her father carved for her when she was a child.

She scanned the room, eyeing the dark corners in particular. Those were where Cole felt safest, where he was most wont to hide.

"Cole? Where are you?"

His hat was the first thing to materialize out of the shadows. Then came his wan face, with its almost bloodless skin, his drowsy eyes half-obscured by hair. Then the rest of him, right down to his scuffed boots.

"I felt your hurt from far away," Cole said. "A stone thrown down an empty well. Echoing."

His voice was child-like, and in his gloomy way, almost eager.

"Cole, this is very kind, but you didn't have to do this."

"We help everyone. Now you need help. It's only fair."

Veda remembered Solas' expression just before he turned to walk away. If anyone might benefit from Cole's compassion, it was him. As lonely as she felt, she did have a few friends whom she could trust and reach out to in her heartbreak. Solas didn't let people in as easily. He had her and Cole and the spirits of the Fade - and now she wasn't an option.

"I'm not the only one who's sad right now."

Cole nodded. "I know. I brought Solas one of those frilly Orlesian cakes. It didn't help much. His pain has too many layers. Past, present, future. Like peeling an onion and finding another onion inside. It stings your eyes and makes your head hurt."

"That sounds like an apt description."

"Besides, he doesn't like me helping him," Cole said. "It makes him angry. It makes him scared because then I might know too much."

Interesting. Very interesting indeed. Talking to Cole was always full of strange discoveries, sometimes marvellous, sometimes awkward, sometimes just baffling. Veda was surprised Leiliana didn't try to make use of his powers for gathering intelligence. He knew more secrets than anyone, even if most of his disclosures were spewed out in a kind of lunatic poetry.

"What do you know?"

"Not too much. Because he doesn't let me. Just like he doesn't let you. But he can't make a person like you forget. Only I can, when it hurts. That's how I help."

It was alarming to remember that Cole was entirely capable of erasing her memories. However angry she was about how things had ended up with Solas, she didn't want to stop remembering what had sparked between them, if only for a brief while. It had given her hope. It had shaped her for the better. It was the closest she'd ever come to completely opening herself up to another person and however poorly it had ended, it would be worse to think it'd never happened.

"You're not allowed to make me forget, Cole. I don't want that kind of help."

"What kind of help do you want?" He gave her a frightened look and ducked down under the brim of his wide hat. "Not the knife. You promised you wouldn't let me. You promised."

Veda's eyes widened. "Cole! I would never. I'm sad. I'm not suicidal. And even if I were, I would never...No. Just no. I can't believe you thought I'd ask that."

"Alright. I'm glad. The knife needs to stay in the barrel unless we're fighting bad things."

"Yes. That's right. Now if you'd like to help, I have something that you can do."

"What?"

He needed her reassurance, so she tried her best to smile, even if it came out weary. "Be my friend, Cole. Let me hurt, even if you don't like it. If it makes things any easier, you're welcome to put breadcrumbs on the balcony sometimes. I do like the birds."

Cole nodded happily."They will sing and you'll remember waking up in the forest."

"Yes, that's right." She'd loved to wake up in the woods on summer mornings, with birds trilling and sunlight flashing through the canopy.

"But no forgetting?"

"No," she said. "I need to remember."

Cole turned as if to leave, but then all at once, he seemed to think better of it. Stopping dead in his tracks, he reeled around to face her.

His eyes were wide and glassy. Blue veins stood out against his waxy skin.

"He told you the truth but it was just a piece of the truth and that made it worse than a lie. If he told you the real truth, what's in the mirror and what's behind it, then you'd think everything was a lie, but it wasn't."

Veda thought she understood. Some of it. The part about mirrors was supposed to be a metaphor about identity? Maybe? Okay, well, the lying part – that was obvious.

"You're saying Solas has been lying to me? Just to me or to everyone?"

"Not _lying_." Cole said, a touch impatiently. "Just...not telling. Sifting, shifting, slinking at the edge of his thoughts. It's like walking in a dark room and touching something. You don't know what it is. It's there and it has a sharp corner like a box, but you don't know. And then he moves it so I can't find it again and even if I could find it, who's to say it would be the same box?"

Or what might be inside the box, if ever they were to pry it open. Mystery upon mystery, and all pointing to no good.

"So it's a lie of omission then. He's hiding something."

"Yes." Cole seemed calmer now that he'd gotten it off his chest. He carefully brushed his hair back over his eyes. "You mustn't say that I said. Solas is my friend. I don't want to get him in trouble."

"I won't. You needn't worry."

"Good. I'll go now. I'll come back tomorrow. With breadcrumbs, but not with spiders."

Birds ate spiders as well as bread, but Cole knew from their visit to the Beyond that Veda didn't like anything with eight legs, whether it was as tiny as an eyelash or as large as a druffalo.

"Alright. Goodnight, Cole."

As he descended the stairs, Cole faded slightly with each step, until she could see only the tip of his hat and then nothing at all.

Veda sat down on her bed, pondering this latest piece of the puzzle.

What Cole told her shouldn't have come as any great surprise, at least not to a thinking person. But to a fool?

She'd been so willfully blind, lovestruck, dazed by Solas' facility with words and magic. Even when she'd noticed something about him that didn't quite add up, it'd been easy to discount it as another one of his quirks or just...not to think at all. She'd been a sleepwalker, swept up in the throes of a gorgeous dream, still certain of her happiness as she walked towards the edge of a precipice.

It didn't help that Solas had seemed damnably easy to trust: unassuming in appearance, scrupulously moral in his speech and actions. She'd never thought that his unusual charm might be as much a work of artifice as Dorian's perfectly curled moustache or the painstaking tailoring on Vivianne's Orlesian robes.

Veda wasn't sure what to make of it. Perhaps Solas was a danger to the Inquisition. Perhaps he was only a peril to her heart. Either way, she was going to unravel him. She'd have a reason then, an explanation for what had come before, and perhaps it would prove salve for her wounded pride. Dread Wolf take him, she'd never let that man make a fool of her again.


	2. The Hierophant

**The Hierophant Card:** _The high priest presides over sacred rites, his hand raised in blessing. His robe is red as blood spilled in sacrifice and upon his head, the weighty crown. He sits enthroned, master of the mysteries._

* * *

Solas rarely ventured into Skyhold's tavern, but it wasn't an entirely unpleasant place to be. Frankly, it might have been far worse. Based on prior experience and his travels in the Fade, it wouldn't have surprised him to find drunks shouting along to bawdy songs, soldiers harassing serving-girls, small beer that tasted like boiled socks (because that was Sera's quaint notion of humour), perhaps even the heads of dead forest creatures mounted over the bar, for an added touch of brutishness.

In fact, the music was quite tuneful, not the least bit grating on the ear. The decor was simple, but inoffensive and the atmosphere seemed almost subdued, save for Iron Bull's voice booming from downstairs. While the dwarven bartender was not the most welcoming of hosts, he stocked decent vintages of Orlesian wine and generally, was prompt in refilling glasses. After the day's events, Solas found the last quality to be the most essential.

He glared down at the yellowed pages of his book, willing the words to string themselves into coherent sentences. He needed something to stick to his mind and distract him from other less productive thoughts.

It would do no good to allow himself to be mired in regret. It would do no good to contemplate what might have been, had he been able to relinquish his burden. Indeed, it would only do harm, grievous harm, to call up the memory of Veda's face, so bright, so beautiful, so blissfully unaware of who he was or his special contribution to the devastation of the world and the deaths of thousands of innocents.

And that was just his recent work. He could only imagine Veda's delight at discovering how perilously close she'd come to literally being taken by the Dread Wolf, her people's favourite bogeyman and scapegoat. It was hard to imagine she could forgive him the fall of Arlathan or that she could forget he was everything she'd been brought up to despise.

Even if she had, the divide between them was too great to span. He had his duty and the Inquisitor had hers. They might talk and kiss and walk hand-in-hand along a sunlit path, but in truth, there were thousands of years between them. Nothing was going to change that, not emotions or wistful thoughts or fantasies of another world.

Solas emptied the last of the wine down his throat and scowled at the bottom of the goblet. The bartender was cleaning out mugs at the other end of the bar and didn't take the hint.

"I trust I may trouble you for some more?"

"Sure, sure," The dwarf frowned under his beard. "Don't get your britches in a knot."

"My britches are fine. It's this empty glass I'm concerned about."

"This is what? Your sixth?"

Seventh, but there was no need to count. After millennia of enforced sobriety, he'd earned a little indulgence and so he sampled drink when it was on offer, whether amidst the grandeur of Halamshiral or here, in this comparatively humble tavern. Quickling wine wasn't as good as his cherished memories of Arlathan vintages, but it was certainly preferable to the liquid atrocity humans called tea.

The dwarf poured out another glass, grumbling all the while. "After this, I'm cutting you off. I don't need the Inquisitor in here giving me what-for because you showed up sloppy drunk and couldn't close her Fade rift. Or whatever it is you do."

Close her Fade rift? A charming euphemism. He wondered who'd coined it? Probably Sera, although, judging from his work in _Swords and Shields_, Varric was not entirely out of the question.

Obviously, sordid rumours of his entanglement with Veda had made it all the way down here. Perhaps he'd been naive to believe otherwise, to think that what they'd enjoyed would stay sacred for long. Now the bartender had seen him drinking and in a sour mood, and so, that too, would be fodder for gossip. Eventually, it would reach the Inquisitor herself and she'd know his behaviour for what it was: self-pity and weakness. Hypocrisy as well, because he'd urged to her to do her duty, to steel her heart against pain; meanwhile, he was drinking himself foolish and becoming more vulnerable to discovery by the minute.

Solas pushed the wine away and placed a few silvers on the bar to settle his tab. "I've changed my mind. I've had more than enough for tonight. Or any night."

"Suit yourself." The dwarf seized the wine and gulped it down himself, then resumed polishing glasses with a dirty rag.

Sola scooped up the neglected book and was about to make good on his escape, when he heard the stairs creak and the floorboards shudder under the weight of what could only be an overgrown Tal-Vashoth.

A fat-fingered hand grabbed the back of his collar and spun him around, so that he was eye-to-chest with Iron Bull.

"Ha, just the elf I was looking for! Now, what do you suppose this is? Hm?"

He thrust a box into Sola's face with more enthusiasm than sense. Something rattled around inside, possibly broken - as Solas suspected his nose would've been if Bull's aim had been any worse.

"It would appear to be a box."

"A box, he says. Funny, elf. I'm not asking you to be Ben-Hassrath. I'm just asking you to look at the thing and tell me what it is. You're going to _like_ it."

Solas raised an eyebrow. "A present, Bull? Have I inadvertently satisfied a demand of the Qun?"

"Stop being an asshole and look!"

"As you wish."

He put the box down on a nearby table for further inspection. When he slid back the lid, it revealed itself to double as a chessboard. At the bottom of the box, there were chess pieces made in the Tevinter style, magisters and archons and towers carved in soapstone and mahogany.

"Dorian plays chess, does he?"

Iron Bull snorted. "Not as well as he thinks he does. But, yes."

"I see." Solas imagined there was a story behind that, but he wasn't going to pry into the mercenary's private affairs. "And precisely how do I come into this equation?"

"You beat me once, elf. It's not going to happen again."

"You're entirely correct. Because I don't intend to play."

Iron Bull lifted his head, sniffing the air like a scenting hound. "Is that fear I smell? I never figured you for a coward, Solas."

No, a coward he was not, whatever else might be said of him. Deceiver, pretender, betrayer – from a certain perspective, all those things might be true, but it wasn't fear that ruled him.

"If you were using those renowned Ben-Hassrath skills of yours, you might observe that I'm not in the mood for this."

"Oh, I've observed plenty of things," Bull said. "First off, that you're in here and you're never in here, so either you decided to pry that mage staff out of your ass and have a little fun or you're having a really fucking bad day. Judging by your face, I'm going to opt for the latter."

"A brilliant piece of deductive reasoning. Thank you." Clearly he would need to work harder at controlling his expression.

"I'm not done yet," Bull said. "So, you got yourself boozed up and it's making you crankier than usual. Why are you sticking around here, making sarcastic remarks? Nobody's stopping you from leaving. Could it be that you actually don't want to be all by your lonesome, doing stupid elf things?"

"Because, yes, that's precisely what I do with my spare time. Stupid elf things. You've figured me out."

"Well, you haven't been doing a very good job of reading that book you're hauling around. Didn't mark your page." Bull shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth in bemused disapproval. "Sloppy, Solas. Very sloppy."

"It means nothing. I could've memorized the page number."

"Doubtful. That's a Tevinter book. They mark pages with runes, not numbers."

That was a trifle embarrassing. He'd forgotten the tome was translated from the Tevinter.

"That's what I meant. It's well within my powers to remember the rune for my respective page."

"Will you just give it up? You're feeling like shit right now. I get it. I'm not gonna inquire why. None of my business. However, it's clear you could use a distraction. Therefore, chess. Very simple."

"Very well. Perhaps it's as you say. It may be a distraction is called for. You wish to play as black or white?"

Solas had no preference. For years, he'd played in his head. There, the pieces could be any colour under the sun or come in hues that existed only in the Fade, as rare shades of feeling or experience.

"I always play as black." Bull grabbed a fistful of black pieces and started to line up his side of the board. "Now tell me, exactly how drunk are you?"

Solas took up the white king and placed it on its lonely throne, gingerly arraying the other pieces around it.

"Am I to place this on a scale of inebriation from 'clear-headed sobriety' to 'Sera passed out under a table'? I'm slightly more drunk than I was at Halamshiral. But significantly less than I'd like to be. Will that suffice?"

Bull narrowed his eyes at him, doing his best to appear menacing. With a stranger, it might have succeeded. To someone who knew him better, the expression looked more like nearsightedness or a valiant struggle to hold back flatulence.

"You just better have your wits about you," Bull growled. "When I win, I'm not going to have you claiming you were too wasted to know your tamassran from your Arishok."

"I don't think you need to trouble yourself too much about winning."

"That's the spirit. You're getting distracted already." Bull moved his pawn two spaces out of ranks, another King's Gambit to open. "Now let's see what you've got."

Solas gave up a pawn and a knight in the early going, so that he could take out a bishop and break through the bothersome rows of pawns Bull keep advancing upon him.

The Iron Bull wasn't a bad player overall; actually, he was quite good for a mortal, one who hadn't benefited from centuries in the Fade to improve his game. Nevertheless, Bull thought like a field commander, perceiving all his pieces as loyal troops. It might have been admirable in a flesh-and-blood conflict, but it was pure folly in chess. Bull was reluctant to surrender even the lowliest pawn for a larger stratagem and the more pieces he had on the board, the more convinced he became that he was winning, even if he was only cluttering up the battleground.

Bull took one of Solas' towers with his queen, a negligible loss. "This has gotta be hurting you. Your army's already looking mighty thin, Solas."

Solas moved his last remaining knight into the space beside the one vacated by the queen. By his calculation, he had four more moves until checkmate.

"You're a cunning player, Iron Bull, but you need to overcome this irrational dread of losses. It hardly matters how many pieces I have left, if the ones I have are encircling your king."

"You mean my Arishok. And if you don't watch yourself, your Arishok is going to be very lonesome on the battlefield before my Ben-Hassrath cut him down."

"It's called sacrifice, Bull. You have a primary objective and you must endure necessary losses, sometimes painful ones, in order to attain it. Chess is ultimately a game of sacrifice."

As soon as the words escaped his lips, he had cause to regret them. A sacrifice made in a chess match was hardly comparable to what he'd done that afternoon to Veda.

Her face came back to him again, as if summoned from the depths, only this time, there were tears glimmering in her eyes and her arms hugged her chest to keep out the cold. To keep out his coldness.

"_Please don't leave me like this. Solas, I love you."_

It was as if there was a hook stuck in his throat. Solas hadn't thought to let himself get so entangled with a mortal, in defiance of reason and all better judgment. He'd been foolish. He'd been selfish.

He was still selfish. Despite the pain he'd caused, he still couldn't make himself regret kissing Veda in their shared dream of Haven or any of what had come after. He deplored the consequences of his heedless passion, but that hardly qualified as true remorse. Were he given the chance to travel back through one of Alexius' time portals and correct his error, he knew he'd just have succumbed to temptation again.

The Dalish were wise to face his statue away from their camps. They might have poor memories, but their instincts weren't mistaken. He had a talent for the best of intentions and the worst of results.

Bull's hand thumped against the table, rattling the board and every piece on it. "Look, you don't have explain sacrifice to me, elf. I'm not Qunari anymore, remember? Everybody on Par Vollen thinks I'm some damn Tal-Vashoth asshole because I _made_ one of your little chess-game sacrifices."

Solas hadn't even considered that interpretation of his remark. In retrospect, it should've been obvious.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my intent to imply you hadn't made personal sacrifices - very worthy ones. You know I respect what you chose."

"Some choice," Bull huffed. "Like picking between your left ball-sack or your right one."

Under other circumstances, Solas might've been entertained by the colourful metaphor. At the moment, however, he was in no condition to champion individualism against the mindless collectivism of the Qun. He was in no condition for anything, even winning at chess. He had four moves to checkmate and that was three too many.

"This game – the fact is, I'm not faring well. Would you allow me to forfeit? It would be your victory."

Bull reached across the board and toppled Solas' king with a flick of his index finger. "Fine. Not exactly the win I was looking for, but it'll do for the time being."

Solas helped return the chess pieces to the box. Chess played on a board was easy to clean up.

The chess match he'd made of his life – that was another game altogether. It wouldn't be resolved so easily.

"Thank you," he said. "We may find time to play again before this is over. If so, I'll endeavour to be better company."

As Solas made his way downstairs, he overheard a pair of scouts at a nearby table.

"So she walked in and you could tell she was trying to hide it, right? But how can you hide that? Those tattoos were all over her face. And now they're gone."

"That's not even possible. Maybe they put make-up on her to cover it up?"

"No, I seen it. If that was make-up, it's better than anything those fancy types in Valle Royaux are using. I'm telling you, those marks had vanished. Not a trace."

"Could be magic."

"Maybe, but it'd be a mighty funny magic as could do all that. I say, higher powers. Will of the Maker."

"Nah. Just for her face?"

"Why not? It's as good an answer as any. Better than most others I've heard. I can't picture Andraste wanting her Herald with a face full of heathen marks."

Solas contemplated going over and issuing a correction of some sort, but what was he to say? He didn't have explanations to offer the people who deserved them. No reason to waste breath on a pair of imbecile humans.

It would have been immensely satisfying to hit them, however. Long ago, he might have gone ahead with it, in the righteous fury of youth. Nowadays, he was more inclined to let the ignorant stay that way. Most seemed to enjoy their blindness.

Solas left the warmth of the tavern and trod through the snowy courtyard, back to the sanctuary of his room. He curled up on his couch and tried to rest.

His dreams were troubled with fallen chess pieces shaped like halla. He bent down to lift one up, but it was too heavy to budge. Tears fell from its blank stone eyes.

His own reflection was stalking him, a shadow with a wolf's head clutching a blackened orb in its half-clawed hands. Hunter and prey, they drifted across the checkered board, corpses trailing in their wake.

He looked upon the charred bodies at Haven, locked in their last suffering. They reminded him of what awaited him in Arlathan.

He encountered templars and mages, spirits and demons. They clashed on the board, died, and rose to fight again, despite severed limbs, corroded flesh, skulls staved in with maces. His actions had created a world where their violence seemed necessary, even inevitable, an endless cycle of oppression and corruption.

He gazed down at the skeletons of slaughtered elves nestled together in mass graves, the chalk that was their bones piling up in slow accretions to build hills and mountains, to feed forests and plains. His descendants were under his feet. He was walking on them, bones crunching under his weight, then he was walking past them, toward a blood-soaked horizon that shone with all the light and promise of dawn.

There would be more sacrifices before this game was over, but the dawn would come. He would bring it.


	3. The Sun

**The Sun Card: **_A naked child rides astride a grey horse under the steady gaze of the noon-day sun. In her hand, a red banner unfurls, flapping in the breeze. A new order begins. Secrets are drawn into unflinching daylight._

* * *

The morning sky looked clear and bright through Veda's balcony windows. Outside, she could hear doves cooing from their perches in the eaves. Scruffy brown sparrows hopped along her balcony, pecking at the bread crumbs Cole had scattered there. It wasn't another world - certainly not a better world, after the events of the day before – but it was a world worth saving.

Veda dressed, then went back to the vanity to examine her reflection in the cold light of day. The vallaslin had once arced over her forehead and sliced along her cheekbones, mapping the contours of her face. It was her eyes that stood out now. They held a look of astonishment and of despair, the glazed expression of a wounded doe awaiting the hunter's approach. Her skin was so...blank. She might've been a city elf, like Sera, one who'd grown up without any sense of her heritage.

Would that have been better? Probably not. False as they were, the Dalish stories and rites had given her comfort and belonging for a time.

Sola's words returned to her thoughts unbidden, so insidiously gentle, so impossibly cruel: _"You are so beautiful."_

She turned away from her reflection and from the echo of his voice in her mind, her face stinging as it had been slapped. Best not to look again until she had to.

Veda took her breakfast in the dining hall, devouring her porridge with unusual gusto. Her appetite surprised her until she remembered that she'd gone without supper the night before.

People eyed her bare face, but Veda didn't feel as exposed under their gazes as she had the previous night, when her wounds were new and bleeding. Let them stare and whisper behind their hands. The more they gawked at her now, the sooner they would bore themselves and move onto to another sensation.

Once she'd breakfasted, Veda headed to the Rookery to see Leiliana. She took the long way up via the library stairs to avoid passing through Solas' office.

Leiliana was hunched over her desk, scanning through what appeared to be stolen correspondence. A particularly battle-scarred and malicious-looking raven perched on the spymaster's shoulder with a possessiveness that warned Veda to keep well out of pecking distance.

"Leiliana, do you keep dossiers on members of the Inquisition?"

"Why, of course I do. How else would we discover if there was a betrayer in our ranks?" Her blue eyes narrowed, becoming hard and glinting as sequins on an Orlesian mask. "Who are you interested in?"

Solas' name was on the tip of Veda's tongue, but she didn't say it aloud. It would be best to investigate on her own initially, until she was absolutely certain that what he was hiding presented a true threat to the Inquisition. It was possible that she'd find Solas was just a troubled, lonely man whose secrets hurt no one. In that case, it would be vile to set Leiliana and her spies on him to hound out the truth.

"No one in particular. I'm just curious about the people we've acquired as allies. I'd prefer to avoid another incident like what happened with Blackwall."

Leiliana frowned at the reminder. "Yes. I'm sorry we didn't detect his true identity sooner."

The revelation of Blackwall's true identity as Captain Thomas Ranier been a major embarrassment for the Inquisition. They'd had to return the resources gained from the Grey Wardens' treaties and it had taken every ounce of Veda's influence in Valle Royaux to keep the man from the gallows. Some still believed the rescue had been a mistake, a stain on the honour of everyone involved. Veda saw it as a matter of loyalty. Regardless of who he'd been before, Blackwall fought for the Inquisition and the Inquisition didn't abandon its own, not if there was still hope for redemption.

"You did what you could," she said. "Blackwall's deception came from a wish to atone for his crimes and serve the Inquisition. If that's the worst treachery we suffer, I'll account us lucky."

"Mind you, I don't store such sensitive information here in the Rookery, where anyone might see it...or abscond with it," Leiliana said. "If you'll bear with me a few minutes, I'll retrieve the dossiers and you may look over them here. You'll understand when I ask that you don't stray anywhere else with them. Many of them are very...informative. Some of your allies might not understand the need."

"In other words, if Sera really wants to know the colour of Cassandra's small clothes, this is the place to look."

"Yes. Also if she wants to know the name of the merchant she purchased them from and how much she paid. Which was probably too much." Leiliana's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. "Of course, Cassandra is an easy mark. For the most part, she's lived her life in the open. There are others who've kept their existences considerably more private. Our knowledge of them doesn't reach as far. It may even be that you'll have leads to share with me from your personal interactions, information my network may follow up on."

Veda wasn't certain she liked the sound of that. She wasn't a bard and she wasn't going to report a friend's private confidences back to the Rookery.

"It's going to take more than just curiosity to make me break trust with someone I care about. If I'm convinced there's something dangerous, you'll be the first to know about it."

While Leiliana went off to get the dossiers, Veda made herself comfortable at a nearby table. She took out parchment, dipped the goose-quill pen into the inkstand and began to scribble down a few notes to organize her thoughts on the Solas situation. There were so many things that just didn't make sense.

_ \- Elvhen far better than mine. Dialect peculiar. Can't always understand. _

_\- Upset at Temple of Mythal. Seemed angry. Maybe annoyed at Morrigan playing expert on ancient elves? Maybe something else?_

_\- Took to Winter Ball too readily. Where does an apostate acquire knowledge of court intrigue? Almost caught him there and he didn't like it._

_\- Little interest in Dalish or city elves. Not "his" people. Who are his people? Are they living, dead or spirits in the Beyond?  
_

_\- Who "senses" ancient Elvhen artifacts? Is he remembering their locations and conveniently steering me in right direction? Some other way of detecting?_

_ \- Paints frescos in style of ancient elves. Skilled enough that master painter admires it. They don't teach this in the Fade._

_\- Knows too much about everything all the time._

_\- Doesn't always tell what he knows._ _Or tells it too late. Why?_

The words 'ancient' and 'old' kept reappearing in her observations. Veda circled each instance of them. If she confronted Solas, no doubt he would claim that it could all be traced back to his travels in the Fade, but that excuse was getting as threadbare as some of his traveling clothes.

What if Solas hadn't just dreamed of the past? What if he had lived it? The idea of him being an ancient dreamer risen from uthenera would have seemed much more outrageous before their visit to the Temple of Mythal. However, after discovering Abelas and the Sentinels, and encountering Morrigan's mother, a human claiming to carry the spirit of Mythal herself, the notion seemed almost...sane.

After all, Abelas hadn't reacted to Solas as if they were from different worlds. He'd listened to his advice and accorded him more credence than anyone else present, Veda included. Could it be that they'd recognized one another, by manner or signs, as Dalish hunters knew one another's kills by the fletching of the arrows?

If it were true, it would resolve the inconsistencies Veda had detected in Solas' stories and the way he acted in his more unguarded moments with her. If he seemed as if he came from another world, graced with strange magic and impossible knowledge, perhaps it was because he _did_.

The Inquisition's spymaster returned, carrying a heavy stack of files. She hefted them onto Veda's desk.

"There you are. The Inner Circle. This is all we know."

"Thank you."

Veda hesitated to touch the files, all too aware that Leiliana was watching to note which she'd turn to first. It was only when the bard had gone that she felt comfortable picking up the dossiers and comparing their relative thicknesses.

Judging by the size of their files, there was no lack of information on Cassandra, Cullen and Josephine. For the most part, the Inquisition's founders were known quantities. While Veda might have been tempted to poke around in their files for curiosity's sake, her better instincts told her there was little justification for it. She put the dossiers aside without cracking their covers.

Iron Bull's file was, fittingly, also a bulky one, although Veda wondered how much of it was disinformation circulated by the Ben-Hassarath. The rest would likely be chronicles of his adventures with the Chargers and his tavern exploits, rumours of which had already gained notoriety at Skyhold. As Vivienne would say, _Very piquant_, but clearly not relevant to the matter at hand. Also probably best avoided if Veda didn't want to discover any new uses for nug leather and double-forged steel.

Veda pushed the dossier aside, then put Varric, Sera and Vivienne's files on top of it as added protection. She didn't need to know the details of Vivienne's scheming to know she aspired to be elected either Divine or Grand Enchanter within the next year. She didn't need to open Sera's file to know that her plans only went as far as the next prank or the next meal. As for Varric, if she wanted his most interesting stories, Veda knew she was going to have to shell out for the book. They all came with agendas, but none of those too hidden. She could anticipate their next moves.

Predictably, Solas' file was the thinnest of the bunch, just scraps of correspondence, a characteristically terse report that Cassandra had written upon taking him into custody, and a lengthy reading list on the Fade.

Among the letters, there were a few that he'd written Veda, which had evidently been taken from the drawer of her nightstand, copied and returned without her ever guessing they'd come under the scrutiny of Sister Nightingale and her many eyes.

The words were familiar even if the handwriting was not, the copyist's blocky print bearing little resemblance to Solas' spare, elegant cursive.

_Inquisitor,_

_I've been considering that rather stimulating conversation we had in Haven. As I've mentioned, it's rare for me to be taken aback by what occurs in dreams, yet that afternoon surpassed all expectation._

_I wonder if you'd welcome another discussion; perhaps in a similar vein? I wouldn't be adverse to meeting in person this time, if you'd like. _

She read Leiliana's notes in the margins.

"Close...too close? Must see about getting her a different trainer"

A little further down the page and underlined twice:

"The Inquisitor must not be compromised"

Veda turned to another page, finding a copy of a missive that had come but a little later in their affair. Gone were the veiled allusions, the tentative hints to something more. When he wrote to her thereafter everything had been pure need, desire as raw as his mouth on hers, taking her breath and giving his in return.

_To my wandering heart, that you will return to me. Of late, my dreams are empty without you. Shall I come to you in the Fade? Wear this amulet and I will know the answer is yes._

She remembered the afternoon she received that letter, after a few day's sojourn in the Hissing Wastes. A scout had delivered supplies to their windblown camp and with it, the letter and the amulet, a piece of halla antler strung on a thin band of leather.

She'd worn it to sleep that night and Solas had come, just as the letter promised. Almost every night thereafter, she'd invited him into her dreams, just by slipping the amulet around her neck, lying down and closing her eyes. Each time, he'd found her, whether she slept in her luxurious Orlesian bed at Skyhold or in a rumpled bedroll in the Fallow Mire.

As Veda re-read the letter, a single tear scalded her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

There was another of her spymaster's notations at the bottom of the page and this one was by far the most disturbing: "This is getting heated. Inquire with chambermaid."

Leiliana had asked the chambermaid to inspect her bedsheets? Such indignities might have been commonplace to Celine when she'd been Empress of Orlais, but Veda had never imagined that she'd be the subject of such obsessive concern.

In any case, her adviser's worry was unfounded. The closest she and Solas had come to that blessed release was in their shared dreams, and those dreams were never coming true.

That was the entirety of the file. It left Veda with one conclusion: she'd fallen in love with an enigma. Even Cole, vague and ethereal as he was, had a more solid back story, with past associates, places he'd been, facts that could be verified.

Solas' dossier did little more than note the obvious - that he was an elven apostate, knowledgeable about the Fade, and apparently not an imminent threat compared the gaping hole in the sky - and recite the vague history he'd provided the Inquisition when he arrived in Haven. The name of the village he came from was his closest connection to this side of the Veil and even that was so obscure it didn't appear on a map.

"Have you found anything interesting?"

Leiliana's voice stirred her from her thoughts. She shut Solas' dossier and stacked the other files on top of it.

"I'm wondering where my dossier is," Veda said. "I have one, I take it?"

"You do. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"I'm not alarmed. Disturbed, yes, but I'll do my best not to think about it."

"That's probably a good approach."

"I've noticed that some of these dossiers are lacking significant details. Would it be possible for you to assign an agent or two to do some follow-up?"

"The majority of my agents are already in the field right now. We're stretched very thin. Nevertheless, I have a few contacts who may prove useful. Which dossiers did you wish me to focus on?"

"Sera, Solas and Vivienne."

Veda hoped that offering up other candidates would help disguise her overriding concern with Solas. The ploy probably wouldn't fool Leiliana, but it was worth trying, if only to muddy the waters.

"I don't want anyone harassing them," she added. "Go gently and go subtly. Just dig into where their origins, their allegiances, and anything that might have the potential to harm or discredit the Inquisition. If these files look thicker when I return, I'll rest easier."

Leiliana nodded. "As you wish, Inquisitor. I will make inquiries, but in this case, I'll use a soft touch."

"Thank you."

Veda returned the dossiers to Leiliana, relieved to have them off her hands. The spymaster's methods could be startlingly effective, but the part of Veda that was still unabashedly Dalish rankled at the thought of daggers in the dark.

By nature, her people were plain-spoken, warding strangers off with scowls, not enticing them with false Orlesian smiles. Every clan had its gossip and the occasional bout of in-fighting, but there was little room for intrigue in a world where every day hinged on supplies, shelter and staying protected from outsiders, be they bandits, soldiers or vengeful villagers.

Veda was still not accustomed to a world where people's pasts were blanketed in shadow and everyone's motivations might prove suspect. Until the Conclave at Haven, she'd been surrounded by people she'd known from birth: clan-mates whose loyalties were as clear as the markings on their faces. In this wider world owned by humans, everyone wore masks, whether they were Orlesian or not. One had to hunt for truth with Andruil's arrows and a swift hound.


	4. Strength

**The Strength Card: **_A woman clothed in white bends to close the jaws of a lion red as flame. His tongue laps at her hand. The maiden tames the beast, the one without and the one within. Upon her head rests the floral crown. _

* * *

Veda took her notes and wandered down to the lonely little reading room in the East Wing. She'd spotted a rare book down there with an entire chapter speculating about the nature of uthenera. It might provide facts to confirm or disprove her theory about Solas' identity.

The reading room was less cobwebby than it'd been when the Inquisition first moved to Skyhold, but mildew still clung to the floorboards in places and it was not out of the question to spot a spider skittering along the spine of some long-abandoned book. The first time it'd happened, Veda bolted back, gasping, and Solas had caught her, his hands steady on her shoulders.

"_I take it you aren't fond of spiders," he said._

"_That would be an understatement."_

"_But why? When they're as small as this, they're harmless enough."_

"_Until I wake up find them in my bedroll and I'm so frantic with terror that I nearly pitch myself into the campfire." _

_He chuckled at that. She grinned back at him, pleased to have drawn him from the quiet melancholy he wrapped around his shoulders like an old cloak. _

"_But you lived in the wilderness for many years. Surely you became accustomed to such rude awakenings?"_

"_I learned to cope, yes. But in camp, you'll find that invariably I conduct a very thorough inspection of the tents for eight-legged intruders."_

"_Well, the solution to this is very simple. Next time, you must summon me to your tent. I'm quite capable of removing any unwanted guests and finding them happier homes outside."_

_She had trouble concealing her amusement. How typical of him to consider the spiders' feelings in the matter."And that would be your only reason for coming to me?"_

"_No. It would be but one item on a long list of reasons for coming to you. Rescuing hapless spiders from the wrath of the Inquisition is a good cause, but not my principal objective."_

He'd kissed her then, pressing her back against the spines of the books, and she hadn't thought to ask the obvious question: what is your principal objective? What is it that you're hoping to get out of all this kindness and free advice and spider removal? In truth, she'd begun to imagine she was an integral part of his future plans.

How stupid she'd been.

Veda used an old broom to swipe away the few remaining spiderwebs on the shelves, then set about searching for her book.

The collections in the East Wing weren't filed in any coherent order, at least not one that she could discern. Books on the mating habits of wyverns rested alongside tomes of Antivan history and how-to manuals on alchemy.

At last, she caught sight of the book she was looking for. It was high on the shelf and reaching it required that she stand on her tip-toes in a most un-Inquisitorial fashion. She'd nearly managed to pry it down when she heard footfalls behind her.

"Ah. Excuse me. I didn't mean to...disturb you."

The voice was unmistakable: Solas.

Veda had known this was a possibility. Like her, Solas preferred to work in the isolated East Wing rather than in the main library upstairs, which bustled with researchers and fellow mages. Every time Veda tried to study up there, Dorian would be peering over her shoulder, making snide remarks on her choice of reading material:"Oh, you're reading Magister Hyperion? Perhaps I should get you _Swords and Shields_ instead. It'd be more informative" or "Can you read any faster? I'm already on the next page.". That conceited Vint might have numbered among her favourite people at Skyhold, but there were occasions when she would've liked to introduce his mustache to the candle on Josephine's clipboard.

Veda seized her book and dragged it down, striving valiantly to pretend that Solas just hadn't caught her in the act of being too short to reach the top of the blasted human-made shelves.

"You didn't disturb me. This place is yours as much as it is mine."

She curled up in an armchair at the far corner of the room, her back to the wall – a strong defensive position. The book made a good shield against having to look at him.

Solas took a few wary steps into the room. Veda had no intention of looking up to mark his expression, but it was probably one of disbelief. He always expected the worst of people. It was insulting. With her, he ought to have known better.

"That is generous, Inquisitor. Nevertheless, it might be easier for us both if I were to restrict my research to the main library upstairs."

"You don't like it there."

"Not particularly. But it might be the safer choice."

"The safer choice? I didn't realize I was so dangerous."

"You are the Inquisitor. Of course, you are dangerous. To your enemies. And to me."

Veda glanced up in surprise and her eyes met his. It hurt to look at him. It hurt to feel him looking back.

"You're not my enemy, Solas."

"I would not wish to be."

There was sorrow in his face and an unaccustomed weariness. Perhaps he had not slept the night before. If there was any justice in the world, he'd been plagued with bad dreams and forced to swill down cup after hateful cup of the tea he detested.

It'd serve him right, she thought - yet, in spite of everything, she felt herself softening to him as she would not have if he'd had the insolence to look hale, healthy and well-rested.

Veda set her book down on her lap."You have been many things to me, but you'll never be my enemy."

"Best not to say never. You may change your mind one day."

"I say never and I mean never. Even if we found ourselves at odds over something, I would look at you and I'd see a dear friend, my teacher, someone whom I still...care for very much."

Solas turned away, his head bowed, his hand over his face. His breathing was slow and laboured.

"I...you do me too much honour, vhenan. I deserve none of this."

_Vhenan._ The word gutted her. Veda gripped the coiled wood arms of the chair, packing her hurt into a tight ball in the center of her chest.

"You shouldn't call me that. Not now."

"Hm?" When he glanced back at her, there was no malice in his eyes. "I don't understand."

"You just called me 'vhenan'."

Solas rubbed his forehead, muttering a curse to the floorboards. At least it sounded like a curse. It was another of those Elvhen words she didn't understand, at least not when spoken so quickly and with his unfamiliar accent.

"I'm sorry. An unfortunate slip. I'll be more conscious of what I speak."

In other words, to spare her feelings, he'd try to be a more proficient liar. It was the last thing she wanted.

"I know you've kept secrets from me, Solas. If you trusted me with the truth, I might surprise you."

"You've proven yourself trustworthy. I won't deny that. It's one of the qualities that makes you so dangerous. If I have any burdens, they are mine alone. I would not place them on the shoulders of one who already carries so much."

Veda had heard this argument or approximations of it from him before. Duty. Stony self-sufficiency. Solitary burdens that must be hauled around in lonely aloneness forever. Appropriately mysterious and tragic. Honestly, if it'd come from anyone else, she would've thought it was all a steaming pile of halla turds.

Solas was different enough from the average elven man that there might be some justification for it, but it still grated on her. He held a notion that every noble-minded individual had no choice but to go it alone, because anyone else would get it wrong. By his logic, most of Thedas was composed of tyrants and madmen and dithering idiots conspiring to mess up one's great and glorious purpose. It'd sounded hopelessly bitter the first time he'd come out with it and the idea wasn't growing on her with repetition.

"I'd carry any burden you saw fit to share with me. I'd do it gladly, because you've been there for me and because my heart doesn't change its allegiance easily. What happened yesterday hurt, but it doesn't erase all that came before."

Veda paused, as much to regain her breath as to consider her next tactic. "However... if what you're hiding has the potential to damage the Inquisition or to cause harm to those we are sworn to protect, then you are correct: I am dangerous."

Solas' eyes narrowed at the challenge."So you lay out my options: I can confess and receive mercy or I can face the flames of the Inquisition. Quite a choice."

Veda couldn't resist feeding his own words back to him. "I'm doing my duty, without distractions, as you told me I ought. Unfortunately, without those distractions, it's become clear to me there are inconsistencies in what you've said. There are things that you've purposefully omitted. I know you're not just some clever apostate who stumbled upon the Inquisition and decided to help."

"Then what am I?" He ventured closer, as if to offer her greater opportunity to inspect him.

Veda didn't need the added temptation. She liked to look at him and even when they were in company, she'd often caught her gaze raking over his body with undisguised admiration.

His form was lean, but broad-shouldered, with impeccable posture that made him seem more imposing than he was, and he was already tall compared to most elves. With the snugness of his clothes, she found it uncomfortably easy to picture him naked... or at least how he'd looked during their inexhaustible nights in the Fade, where she'd had the most opportunity to admire.

"I'm curious to hear what you've been dreaming up," he said. "Do you think me an abomination? A spirit made flesh like our friend, Cole? Or something else entirely?"

Veda blushed. She needed to turn off her imagination _now_. It took a few frantic seconds for her to push the memories aside and recollect her argument.

"There's little I can say with confidence except that you are ancient, older than Abelas and the Sentinels. Perhaps older than the Temple of Mythal."

Solas folded his arms over his chest, tracing his thumb over the scar on his chin as he did when he was musing over a new idea.

"An interesting theory. I commend you on your imagination, da'len. Have you any evidence of this, beyond my small knowledge of ancient Elvhen and what I've told you of my journeys in the Fade?"

He was testing her again, probing what she knew, taking on the familiar role of teacher so that she'd sink back into playing his student. Veda had found this game alarmingly sexy once and it was still hard to resist. After all, she was very well-trained in it, having spent years as clan know-it-all, Keeper's pet.

Solas was all too aware of this. It'd been half the fun of their early flirtation and it had added spice to many of their forbidden pleasures in the Fade. She'd be deceiving herself if she pretended that she hadn't enjoyed playing the part of eager young prodigy, gaining the benefit of all Solas' hard-earned knowledge and basking in the warm glow of his pride and approval.

"Circumstantial evidence, but I know what I know, hahren. Even the young may see truth. Sometimes better than their elders."

"Believe what you will. Even if you're correct, the worst I'd be guilty of is being older than I look."

He paused, his eyes searching her face – for what, she didn't know. "It occurs to me that it would be a rare accomplishment, for a Dalish woman to ensnare the heart of an immortal, one of the fabled ancestors. Perhaps you'd like me better if I had lived forty thousand summers instead of forty-two?"

Veda scoffed at this notable piece of arrogance. As if she'd seduced him simply to add another elven artifact to her collection! It was probably as much confirmation as she was ever going to get in the matter. The evidence wouldn't stand up in a judgment, but it was enough to make her confident she was on the right track.

"Truly, Solas? That's meant to be a serious question? I'd like you better if you would be honest about who you are. I ask remarkably little and yet it seems it's too much for you, ancient Elvhen or no. Your people may have built Arlathan, but you're all strangely incapable of giving anyone a straight answer."

He laughed. "That may well be a valid criticism of the ancient Elvhen. I will say this: contemporary people have a strange obsession with acquiring answers, yet they continually fail to ask the right questions."

"Or you simply succeed in evading them."

He shrugged his shoulders. "That too."

"I'm beginning to understand Sera's frustrations with the Dalish."

Solas had the gall to look almost...amused. "Indeed?"

Veda felt a sudden urge to put him in a static cage or, at bare minimum, throw her book at him. She restrained herself; in part because it would be undignified, in part because she knew he'd have a barrier up before it came within a foot of his stupid, shiny head.

"Yes. We Dalish can be smug, condescending, self-righteous, arrogant, defensive. We isolate ourselves, we look down on almost everyone, and we're most prone to criticize those we might be helping. Stop me when this sounds familiar."

He frowned. "You're implying that I out-Dalish the Dalish?"

"In some regards, yes. What's more annoying is that you're frequently right."

"And I should be punished for correctness?"

"I didn't say it deserves punishment. Just that can be annoying and terribly, infuriatingly..." she searched for another adjective, one that hadn't been coined by Sera, but that word was the only one that did the feeling justice: "..._elfy_. No one likes to be called a child, even when you're polite about it and do it quietly in your head."

Solas seemed to consider this, then gave a faint nod.

"You've made your point, Inquisitor. I concede that, in spite of my better efforts, I may not be an entirely humble man. When I first came to the Inquisition, when I met you, I came with preconceptions. I was mistaken. You make me doubt... many things."

"I think about all these months you've been letting me walk around blissfully ignorant, proud of my slave markings," she said. "I knew nothing. I suspected nothing. What a fool I must have looked to you."

"Ignorance and foolishness are two different things."

"Did you think about the markings when you kissed me?" she demanded. "Maybe it even brought back a little of the past for you. Did it get you excited, fooling around with a slave?"

His face turned hard as adamant and she knew she'd struck a sore point. It didn't give her the satisfaction she'd hoped for, but it was better than nothing.

"No. If you must know, it sickened me."

"I make you sick. That explains a lot, Solas. Thank you."

He put his hand to his forehead, as if she was giving him a headache with her impertinence. The gesture didn't help her mood.

"Don't purposely misinterpret what I say," he shot back. "It's a childish trick. You are better than that. The markings, or rather, the connotations of them, sickened me. Especially because you didn't know and because I was...enthralled by you, enough to overlook my principles. Hard-fought principles, I might add. I waited to tell you because I wanted to be certain you'd believe me."

"I did believe you."

She'd trusted him so unreservedly. It was hard to imagine ever making herself that vulnerable again, with him or with anyone.

"Yes. You're free of that past. It cannot sully you. It cannot touch you any longer."

"It stopped touching me and then so did you. Strange how quickly your feelings for me cooled when I ceased to look like an inferior, your sad little Dalish plaything. "

"My feelings haven't ...it has nothing to do with that."

"Truly? So it's just a coincidence that you 'free' me then break my heart? A more suspicious person would think you were mocking me."

"And that person would be wrong," he said. "It was a gift. It was meant for your happiness."

"My happiness?" She loosed a spiteful laugh. "Do I look happy to you?"

"I'm sorry. I wanted... I wish it could be different."

"I may be da'len and until recently I may have been painfully unaware of some very important facts about my heritage, but I'm not too stupid to understand things if you'd take the time to explain. It may be that you're wiser and you know better than me. It may be that pride has blinded you and you don't. We won't know until you lay your cards on table."

"I don't ask you to trust me," Solas said. "Trust in what the future holds. One day, you will see. You will know all of it. You'll understand why I've acted thus and why I've tried to spare you."

Veda stared at him, torn between sorrow and helpless rage. "Spare me? What have you spared me? Not loss. Not pain. When can I expect a real answer instead of riddles?"

"When Corypheus is slain, if we're both left standing, I assure you the truth will become clear. Until then, this conversation, all of this... speculation, is useless." He heaved a sigh. "Worse than useless. This is sheer masochism. It stirs passions that would be put to better use fighting the madness this world has become."

Veda lifted a hand towards him, willing a tongue of flame to rise from her open palm. The fire licked at her fingertips as if it were a pet hound trying to console her.

"Are _your_ passions stirred, hahren? I'm glad I could raise your pulse a little. Skyhold is cold. The way you're going, I fear your blood may freeze."

Solas gave her an admonishing look. He didn't like these melodramatic flourishes, but too bad for him. He didn't get to tell her how to feel, how much to feel. Better to be bold and maybe a little childish than an old, overcautious craven with a heart encased in ice.

"I'd rather freeze than burn, da'len," he said. "It's a strategy worth considering. You will need a clear mind for what's to come."

"You've given me that line before. I didn't believe it the first time. This is about your plans, your secrets...you. Not me. Let's not pretend it's for my own good."

"The fault in this is mine," Solas glanced to the door. "I'll make it easier. You needn't worry about encountering me like this again. From now on, I'll have my books and my meals delivered to my quarters."

Seeing him in retreat somehow made her even more angry. At least before, he'd cared enough to argue. There was some small pleasure to be had in sparring with him, even if it cut her up inside.

"So that's it? You're going to run away? Hide? Go take a nap and have a nice little dream about Arlathan?"

"I might do just that. It'd offer me some respite from this."

"The irony is, I'll bet you weren't even happy there."

"Happiness isn't everything." He didn't sound convincing.

"Have you even tried it? You might be surprised."

Solas shook his head. "You're young, Veda, and as you've so astutely pointed out, I'm...not. Our priorities are different. If love is what you desire, I expect there are many others who would gladly pay court to you. Likely, they'd be able to offer you more than I ever could. Happiness included."

"That may be," she said. "But I don't give my heart easily. When given, it's not easily lost."

Solas' voice seemed gentle then, even kind."We are the same in that. I cannot fault you." Then he turned his back to her, again, as always. Lately, it seemed all he ever did was walk away. "Best to be cold then. It will numb the hurt."

With that, Solas was gone. Only the hurt remained.


	5. The Magician

**The Magician:** _The man will make a miracle. He lifts his wand high. The sword, the stave, the coin and the cup are ready before him. Infinity dangles over his head and flowers tangle beneath his feet. His left hand points to the earth. As above, so below. _

* * *

Back in his office, Solas tried to close his eyes and lose himself in a dream of Arlathan.

Veda had guessed correctly in some respects. He'd never been entirely satisfied with the empire, even in its greatest glory, Yet she was wrong to suppose he'd never been happy there. Arlathan had been a city of wonder and beauty, offering innumerable opportunities for the curious to grow in wisdom. There, the gifted had been able to pass centuries experimenting with new forms of magic, engaging in philosophical debates, or honing their skills to create unsurpassed marvels of art, literature and music. There had been much to admire, even as there had been much to despise.

The enlightened leisure of the nobility had come at the cost of great suffering, but had the share of pain there been any worse than what he'd witnessed in this world, the one he'd supposedly improved? At least Arlathan had not suffered under the burden of mortality or the shortsightedness and numbing mediocrity that so often accompanied it.

How strange it was that his restless mind refused to take him back to the Arlathan of his most nostalgic imaginings. Instead, his dreaming self stayed with his waking one, never venturing further than the couch in Skyhold's rotunda:

_Solas woke to Veda's body curled against his, her face nuzzled against the back of his neck. _

"_Vhenan."_

_She smiled; he could detect it from the twitch of her lips behind him, even if he wasn't positioned to see it. _

"_Ma lath." Her arms entwined around him. "I'm sorry to wake you. I saw you and you looked so peaceful, I just couldn't resist."_

_Rolling over, he kissed her, cupping her breasts through the fabric of her robes. He rubbed her nipples with his thumbs, enjoying how they perked up and hardened under his touch, pleased at the soft moan that escaped her lips. _

"_You are lovely to awaken to."_

_Her mouth nibbled playfully against his neck, light kisses interspersed with panted breaths, as his hand slid down the plane of her stomach, to the wet little cleft between her thighs. _

_He touched her through her robe, then slipped his hand underneath it. She never wore small-clothes; it was one of the few Dalish customs he appreciated. He curled a finger inside her, gently rubbing her clit. A hint of electricity thrummed over his fingertips and she squirmed and gasped with pleasure._

_He covered her mouth with his free hand. _

"_Shh, my love. They will hear us."_

_Veda licked his hand, then bit it, giving him a feral smile. "I don't care."_

_He wasn't sure how she managed this, one moment so demure, the next a forest temptress. It was a study in contrasts that he found especially alluring._

"_You do care."_

"_About you. I want them all to know. I'm tired of pretending."_

"_We pretend nothing."_

"_Really? So you're my elven servingman then?"_

_He smiled, letting the electric pulses linger a little longer. She writhed against him in a torment of pleasure. _

"_I like to serve you."_

"_Mmm. Stop teasing and take me to bed. My room isn't far."_

_How tempted Solas was to do precisely that. Yet he'd told himself he wouldn't take her in the flesh, not when he was still concealing so much from her. It would make everything more difficult, more prone to complications, and if they let it happen once, neither of them would be able to resist letting it happen again and again. _

_In the Fade, there was no need to worry about the same degree of emotional upheaval, or the physical consequences that might ensue if he spilled his seed inside her. In the Fade, they could do anything they wished without fear of discovery or scandal, and when he entered her there, he could feel her pleasure as entirely as he did his own, a union of minds as well as of bodies. It was better that way, less messy – so why he was still entertaining the urge to scoop her up, carry her through the Great Hall to that Orlesian bed of hers and utterly ravage her?_

_He stopped his ministrations."We...shouldn't." _

_Her hand delved under the band of his trousers, gentle fingers stroking the swollen head of his cock, making it nearly impossible to think. "Why not?"_

"_Take me upstairs," she whispered. "Do what you will with me. I know you want to." _

_Her touch was always a sudden awakening, as if he were being drawn shuddering back to life. It was wonderful, almost miraculous, but there was pain in it too. The more he gave to her in the now, the more the past receded out of view. _

"_I do. You can see how much I do. Yet let us wait until tonight, vhenan. In the Fade. Something to look forward to."_

_Veda withdrew her hand, her face kittenish, pouting. It was difficult to discern if she was truly displeased or if this was just part of their game of Forbidden Romance – skirting the bounds of propriety but not erasing them. _

"_Tonight. In dreams, then."_

_She sat up, as if leave him, but he drew her back down, crushing her body to his. He kissed her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips, her chin. _

"_In dreams, my heart."_

When Solas awoke, he half-expected to find Veda still in his embrace. Instead, the room was cold, his arms were empty and Arlathan was gone, never to come again.

* * *

After her confrontation with Solas in the reading room, Veda would've liked to go back into hiding in her quarters, but that was not what the day had in store for her. No, there were strategy sessions in the War Room to attend, tasks that they needed to plan and delegate to the Inquisition faithful. There were requisitions to be ordered. There were judgments to be made and enacted. There were a hundred things, big and small, demanding her attention, and no one would see to them without a word from her.

On one hand, Veda was glad to keep her mind occupied with the daily business of running Skyhold and its numerous external operations. On the other, she found herself absolutely exhausted by the end of the day, with little to look forward to beyond more work the next morning. There were hard knots in her shoulders and her butt had gone completely numb from hours spent stationed on the Inquisition's throne.

Thankfully, the wine cellar was well-stocked. Veda knew she'd be going through a bottle or two before sleep would be an option. Now it was just a matter of finding appropriate company, preferably someone who liked to drink and was incapable of taking anything too seriously. She had just the candidate in mind. If only he'd stop primping and answer the door to his room.

She knocked harder.

"Dorian, there's a matter that requires your immediate attention."

"More demons? I'm a trifle busy at the moment."

"You aren't busy. If I know you, and I do, you're in there buffing your nails."

The door opened a sliver, enough to reveal most of Dorian's well-moisturized face. Yes, he'd definitely been prettying himself up. His mustache was freshly curled and his eyeliner was smudged just so.

"Shhh. I'm extremely busy and you're not to say otherwise, or Bull will come by and insist I whack him with a stick."

Veda held up the two bottles of fancy wine she'd 'borrowed' from the cellar. She didn't know anything about good vintages, but judging from the gold trim on the labels, they'd be enough to tempt her friend to take a break from what he referred to as his "me-time".

"Dorian. You. Me. Alcohol. Now."

"Libations? Why didn't you say so?"

He grinned and opened the door wide enough to let a Pride demon come stomping through.

"I thought the presence of booze was implied."

Veda walked into his room, a miniature palace really, complete with statuary, oil paintings, and vases stuffed with peacock feathers. From the sumptuousness of the decor, visitors might think the Inquisition was hosting the Black Divine.

She took a seat on the divan, grabbed a silver bottle opener from the table and uncorked the wine.

Dorian fetched a pair of goblets. He poured out the drinks, reserving the larger cup for himself.

"How nice to see you," he said. "And I don't even have to pay for the wine this time. Even better."

"What are you talking about? You never pay."

"I do so. I paid the last time."

Veda rolled her eyes. "As I recall, you put everything on Bull's tab. So Bull was buying."

Dorian shrugged. "Close enough."

"You're such a mooch."

He rolled the word around in his mouth as if it was a completely unfamiliar concept. "A... mooch? Mooch, you say? Really? You wound me to the quick. You know, it occurs to me: if this Inquisition of yours paid me suitable compensation for use of my prodigious magical skills, I wouldn't have to stoop to begging, borrowing and stealing to subsidize my appreciation for the finer things in life."

"We cover living expenses. Most people's living expenses don't include six crates of Aggregio Pavali Black Label, shipped direct from Minrathous."

He frowned. "You've been talking to Josephine again, haven't you? Terrible habit."

"Josephine's been talking to _me . _And since we're on the topic, she's expecting you to make restitution for all those silk robes you put on credit in Valle Royaux."

Dorian looked pensive, as if trying to remember which silk robes she was referring to. There were so many, after all.

"Can you really blame me for a little retail therapy after those ghastly uniforms she made us wear to the Ball?"

Veda didn't pretend to any expertise in fashion, but their Winter Palace outfits had been a huge let-down. She so rarely had the opportunity to wear anything pretty, and she'd been hoping to be fitted for her first-ever ball gown. Instead, Josephine had presented her with an ill-fitting high-collared suit that made her Keeper robes look like the height of femininity.

"The uniforms were unfortunate."

"Unfortunate? They left me seriously debating with myself: should I let Corypheus destroy the world? Or should I don this atrocity claiming to be a jacket, which makes me look uncannily like an organ grinder's monkey, by the by, and parade myself through Orlesian high society to the scorn and derision of all present? It was a tough call."

She laughed. "You made the right choice."

"Through all that mess, I had only one comfort: that Vivienne looked just as vile." Dorian cackled maliciously and took another sip of wine. "True red is not her colour. I can see why she avoids it."

All at once, he looked up, eye-balling Veda's face as if it was the first time he'd ever seen an elf before. "You did something different. With your, uh, general appearance."

"My vallaslin." When he hadn't immediately mentioned it, Veda thought Dorian was being polite. More like incredibly self-involved. "It took you long enough to notice."

"Your valla – yes, those lovely elf doodles you used to have on your face. Very symbolic and all that. Where did they get to?"

"That's a...long story and not a happy one. Be forewarned, Dorian: I'm expecting high levels of sympathy after this. Are you prepared for that?"

"Just a moment." Dorian poured her some more wine, then dumped the rest of the bottle into his own glass. "Yes. Fully prepared. Continue."

Veda summarized the events of the past two days. Or well, many of the events of the past two days. She left out the bit about how Cole had tried to help her because she was sure Dorian would understand it. If he did, it probably would have concerned him more than anything.

She also opted to omit the part where she started to suspect Solas of being an ancient elf, or the incident where she out-and-out accused him of it and he could barely be bothered to make a proper denial. Even with all of that cut out, it was an arduous story to tell, one that took her to the brink of tears more than once.

By the time she was done, Dorian's eyebrows had lifted almost to his hairline. She rarely saw him surprised enough to run the risk of forehead wrinkles.

"So, Arlathan was as bad as Tevinter, hm? Dreadful. No offense, but I think my countrymen may have chosen the wrong source of inspiration."

"No offense taken. Just thinking about it makes me sick."

"But, in other news, Solas knows a spell that can remove tattoos in mere seconds? Without pain or scarring?"

Veda had no idea where he was going with this. "Yes. I mean, that's really the least of all the revelations..."

"No. What it is is positively marvellous! Do you know what this means?"

She shook her head, not certain she wanted to know what Dorian had in mind.

"Veda, we must learn this spell. Why, the money we could make off all the ill-advised tattoos on the Chargers alone...We'd be swimming in Agreggio Pavali by the end of the week!"

She smacked his arm. "Dorian! I asked for sympathy!"

Dorian tried to conceal his laughter behind a well-manicured hand. He did a terrible job of it.

"I'm sorry. It had to be said. Now, sympathy, sym-path-y...Shall we talk about how horrendously awful Solas is? Shall we verbally dissect him as if he were a frog on a laboratory table? Would that help? I think it would help. Furthermore, I would enjoy it immensely."

She glanced down, sloshing the wine around in her cup. "You go ahead. I'm not quite... there yet."

He looked a little abashed."You still care."

"Yes."

"That's remarkably...sweet, if I may say so. Much better than Sola deserves."

"Yes. Probably."

"I'm sure you've noticed that I'm not the fellow's most avid admirer -"

"You're allowed. He hasn't always been the friendliest."

"To me? No." Dorian stroked the ends of his mustache with an air of defensiveness. "I don't think he altogether appreciates my brilliance. Another strike against him. Although, I will confess, I thought you and him rather charming together. I mean, it was oddly adorable, the two of you all elven and bookish with that somewhat creepy penchant for the Fade, both in your ugly pajamas."

He kept teasing her about those. Couldn't he see it wasn't her fault? Veda wore what the Inquisition gave her to wear. What they gave her just happened to be less than attractive.

"For the last time, Dorian, these clothes I've got on are an official Inquisition uniform purchased by Josephine for me to wear at Skyhold during official Inquisition business. These are not, I repeat, not, pajamas."

Dorian rested a hand on her shoulder, giving her a look of deep and heartfelt concern. "Veda. My dear friend. I care about you enough not to lie to you. Those are _pajamas_. The only way they could be any more pajamas if they had a little flap at the rear that you could unbutton when you got up during the night to use the latrine."

"Dorian. Sympathy. Please?"

"What? Oh, very well. Sympathy. At least you have some justification. Josephine made you do it. Whereas, Solas, that elven eyesore, doesn't have any excuse. Any. At all."

Dorian settled back in his chair, crossing his leg over his knee. He seemed a little calmer now that he'd got that off his chest. "Now I've finished being kind, I can say what I don't like about him and why he doesn't deserve you and why I'm appalled – _appalled_ – that you weren't the one to do the dumping. May I proceed?"

Veda nodded. This might make her feel better. It would certainly be good for a laugh or two, which she desperately needed.

"First off, he's entirely too old for you."

Veda gave a wry smile. Dorian didn't know the half of it.

"You're probably right. But he doesn't _look_ too old for me."

"This is the only time you'll ever hear me say this, but...looks aren't everything. The man has a good moisturizer, but he's still too old."

"What can I say?" she said. "I'm hot for Keeper."

"Har, har. Dalish humour is the worst. Now, have we discussed the footwraps?"

"Yes. We have. It's an elven thing."

"It's a _disgusting_ thing."

"It's part of our culture."

"Yes and blood magic is part of my culture. It doesn't mean we have to give in to it. The Fallow Mire exists and so does trenchfoot. Gadding about in footwraps is not a viable option."

Admittedly, Veda was glad to have had boots while they'd been sloshing around in the Fallow Mire. That water was more than a bit suspect, what with the walking corpses that kept crawling out of it.

"Alright. Yes. His feet are fine though."

"They look fine. They are deceiving," Dorian declared. "Now what else? What else? I feel like I've already covered the rest of the ensemble, although that unnerving bone necklace of his does deserve particular mention. What sort of corpse is it from and why does he feel compelled to _wear_ it?"

"It's a wolf jaw. I like it."

She adored the halla antler amulet Solas made her. It was tucked in the drawer of her bedside table, a shameful reminder of everything she still felt for him. She would've liked to wear it, tucked under her robes, close to her skin, but Solas would know and that would make it even more uncomfortable to be around him than it already was.

Dorian sighed. "You need to work with me here. More negativity, please. Oh, okay, something else to deplore: do you know what Solas said to me the other day? He said – and I quote – 'I think I've misjudged you, Dorian'..."

Veda smiled. Dorian was unexpectedly good at mimicking Solas' speech pattern and mannerisms and incongruity of it was hilarious. "That sounds nicer than expected."

"Ah, that's what I thought too! But wait, there's more. So he says, "I think I've misjudged you, Dorian..." and I, being the soul of courtesy, even to the folically challenged, say, "I'm pleased you've come to that conclusion" and then he says – well, can you guess what he says?"

"Something about Tevinter and slavery and how you should go fix it immediately, because he entirely disapproves."

"Close, but not quite. He says, 'Within twenty years' time, I believe you may actually acquire some substance to accompany all that style.' The sheer gall!"

"Hm. He's come down a bit."

"What?"

"You must have done something to impress him. He used to think it'd take forty years, at least."

Dorian grimaced. "Ugh. I hope you defended my honour?"

"I did."

"What did you say?"

"I said that I thought the two of you were more alike than he'd like to admit."

"That isn't defending my honour! Take it back. It's a damnable lie and a slander."

"Solas had a similar reaction," Veda said ruefully. "But it's true. You're both mages. You're both basically kindhearted people. You're both very clever, and very proud of being clever, and you both want to make the world better than it is."

She paused, letting him enjoy the compliments, before adding, "Also, you're both terrible snobs."

Dorian took this observation better than she'd thought he would. Certainly better than Solas would have, if she'd pointed it out to him so bluntly.

"I'll confess to a degree of snobbery. Yet in my case, it is a virtue. I understand the importance of maintaining high standards. I am a _wonderful_ snob. Vivienne, by stark contrast, is a terrible snob. Solas, I fear, is just terrible and terribly depressing, but I fail to see the snobbery."

"This is my theory," Veda said. "You and Vivienne are obvious snobs. It's a lifestyle for you. The two of you absolutely own it."

"Stop comparing me to that harridan."

"You know it's true. Anyway, Solas is different. He's a secret snob. You don't even see him coming and then he's there, quietly judging you. Like Cole, but with self-righteousness instead of daggers."

He chuckled. "I see. That...makes a kind of sense."

"So you get it now? The three of you are actually the same person. If we were to give Vivienne a mustache and Solas an Orlesian hat and you a pair of pointy ears, I might not be able to tell any of you apart."

Dorian's eyes widened in horror. He took a long gulp of wine. "That is truly disturbing. Let us never speak of it again."

They made quick work of the wine.

* * *

It was long past midnight and most at Skyhold had retired to their beds. In Solas' quarters, the lamps still burned.

At his desk, Solas mixed a new batch of paint, different from that he'd used to depict the scenes from the Temple of Mythal. To the unaided eye, this paint looked watery, almost translucent. Paint such as this was not intended to be seen by the unaided eye.

Solas mounted the scaffolding to a bare section of wall, one of the many he'd reserved for this purpose. Those who came to inspect his frescos sometimes questioned these small gaps between scenes, wondering if he would fill them in with something more. He'd shrug and offer up a vague smile that they could construe as politeness or evasiveness or anything else they wished.

One day, someone would figure out the right way to look at the empty patches and the answer would become clear. Solas liked to think that whoever that person was, it would be the right person to understand what he'd meant.

He lit his torch with veilfire and dipped his brush in the paint, which had turned phosphorescent under the dancing light of the torch. It contained all the colours of the spectrum. He had only to think of a shade and the paint would change hue to match his imagining.

Solas was always slow with his first brushstrokes, as he summoned up the image he wanted and let it coalesce in his mind. This one would be difficult, perhaps the hardest he'd undertaken. He wanted to do the moment justice.

His skills might not be up to the task. Solas had only started dabbling in painting a few centuries before the war. After he'd taken charge of the rebellion, there had been little time to stay in practice. Going into uthenera and losing much of his powers certainly hadn't helped matters.

Truly, it was a sad state of affairs that Skyhold's master artisan looked at his poor attempts at fresco and thought they represented the best of the lost Elvhen style. The man's praise embarrassed him. It was akin to looking at a child's precocious scribblings and mistaking them for the masterpiece of the best court painter in Orlais.

If Solas persevered in his work, it was because he enjoyed doing it and because he wanted to offer something to the historical record that even the unlettered would be able to view and understand. The Inquisitor's deeds were worthy of remembrance. Perhaps if her works were recorded in such a way, they would not be misinterpreted, twisted into absurdities, as his had been. The history of the Inquisition was for everyone to see. As long as Skyhold stood, it would be there.

The tale Solas painted in the empty spaces was not for all eyes. It was personal and all the more precious for that. It comforted him to think that, some day, an enterprising scholar might discover the secret images and realize what else had unfolded at Haven and at Skyhold, although such quiet matters of the heart would never be acknowledged in the official record.

Nonetheless, it would be nice to have someone remember him as the Inquisitor's beloved, rather than as the treacherous apostate, the villain who'd twice wrecked the world with his schemes. People would discover those things about him soon enough and all that was good would be forgotten – except in these pictures, which none would see or to know to erase. The Orlesians had removed Shartan's image from the artwork of Andraste, but they would not manage a similar trick in the tale of Andraste's Herald.

Solas finished the graceful contour of Veda's kneeling form, the outline of her face in the moment after the vallaslin had disappeared, his spell still clinging to her in a halo of pale blue light.

Stepping back, he examined the image. It was not as beautiful as she'd been in life, but to aim for that might be a lost cause. There were limits to his skill and to the medium. He made a few refinements and decided it was good enough, the best he was going to manage.

His self-portrait caused him less anxiety. It was not so difficult to paint a bald elf in plain clothes offering a gift to his beloved. Indeed, Solas was amused at how flattering he'd been to himself. At this rate, he'd soon be embellishing his images with the flowing head of hair he'd had before uthenera, and the kind of musculature one saw in statues of Archon Hessarian.

Oh, well. It wasn't as if posterity would know the difference. By then, assuming his plans worked, he'd probably be well out of existence or at best, serving out his exile far from mortal eyes. The image would stand for him and none would be the wiser. He almost envied it. His painted self would always be in that perfect instant before they'd parted. It would never have to go.

Solas filled in the background around them and coated the image in a light glaze to preserve the colours. Under the veilfire, one could make out all the details. The colours were vivid and the lines were clear. The subject matter made it touching, even if his technique was imperfect.

When he extinguished the torch, the picture disappeared from view. It was just another empty space amidst the sprawl of the fresco. Skyhold's master artisan could squint at the spot all he liked. He would see nothing. Not without veilfire.

Solas descended the scaffolding and put away his paints. Best to try and get some sleep. He'd need it for the day ahead.


	6. The Tower

**The Tower card:** _A shaft of lightning strikes the spire, setting it afire. A man and a woman tumble from the heights, screaming as they fall. A toppled crown. A shower of sparks and of ash. All is devastation. _

* * *

Veda was still nursing a hangover when Corypheus mounted his final attack. She bobbed along on the back of her red hart halla, trying not to feel nauseous. It was hard to not feel sick with a massive rift swirling in the night sky overhead, blotting out all traces of stars.

The Inquisition's army was far away, still marching back from the battleground by the Temple of Mythal. All she had were her companions and a small coterie of soldiers who'd remained behind to guard Skyhold. She wasn't sure it'd be enough.

As her party approached the ruins, the debris began to stir, then to float, hovering a few inches above ground.

"That is a wee bit unsettling," Varric said, in what was probably the understatement of the year. The dwarf clutched his crossbow a little tighter to his chest.

"They beckoned him to the city of the gods," Cole muttered. "He thought they'd blessed him. When he arrived, everything was blackened, blasted, blighted. No one was home and how empty was the throne."

Varric shook his head. "Yeah, kid, that's not helping."

Veda hushed them. Ahead, someone was talking. The closer they drew, the more apparent it became that the talking was actually gloating, the hammy sort of lecture that Corypheus and his magister friends seemed to specialize in.

"Tell me, where is your Maker now? Call him. Call down his wrath upon me. You cannot – for he does not exist. I am Corypheus. I shall deliver you from this lie in which you linger. Bow before your new god and be spared."

Some brave soul shouted "Never!" and a blast of fire lit the broken stones and shards of red lyrium. Veda heard the familiar shriek of a despair demon.

Corypheus stood on the threshold of the fallen temple, with Scout Harding and her fellow rangers as his captive audience. They looked dazed, but as far as Veda could tell, most weren't too wounded to manage an escape. She wondered how long Coryfish had been regaling them with his Tevinter suprematist bullshit.

Cassandra rushed forward, impaling the despair demon on her sword just before it could pounce.

"I knew you would come," the magister sneered. He leaned forward, as if to better display his hideousness.

"It ends here, Corypheus."

"And so it shall."

Lightning sizzled from his bony fingers, the pine trees shook, and the earth beneath them began to rise. She saw Dorian stumble and moved to steady him. Solas caught him first.

"Much obliged," Dorian said.

Solas nodded. "It's fine."

"What is this?" Cassandra demanded.

Iron Bull loomed up behind her, looking shaky. "It's a goddamn nightmare, that's what it is."

"He's recreating the Black City in miniature," Solas said. "Such hubris even in the hour of his defeat."

They were floating above the mountaintops, above even the clouds. It was terrifying to fathom the kind of power required to lift a temple halfway to heaven. If they fell, it was going to make for one heck of a splat.

"Quite a sense of showmanship," Vivienne remarked. "We must hope the creature has exhausted himself with all this foolish exertion."

Somehow, Veda didn't think it was likely.

Corypheus glowered at her, seeming to catch his breath.

"You have been most successful in foiling my plans. But let us not forget what you are: a thief, at the wrong place, at the wrong time. An interloper. A gnat. We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood."

Veda didn't have to look at Sera to imagine her reaction to this: blah, blah, fucking blah, Cory-fish.

"You like to talk, don't you?"

He glared at her and Veda stared him down.

An enormous shadow slunk out from its perch on the ruin. Corypheus' dragon, the largest she'd ever seen. Between its massive size and its spiny, gray-scaled body, people had even mistaken it for an archdemon.

As it leaped to attack, Morrigan swooped down in her draconic form, toppling it over the edge of the cliff. Veda had never been so glad to see her.

The dragons fought tooth and nail, enormous wings buffeting the murky sky. They flew up towards the rift, green light swirling across their bodies, and locked together in a death spiral.

"Morrigan!" Veda screamed.

When the witch's dragon slammed into the ground, Morrigan reverted to her true form. Blood streamed from her head and trickled down her pale face. She struggled to her feet, then fell forward.

Veda glanced at Solas. She was hesitant to ask him for anything at the moment, but he was the best of her mage companions when it came to healing. "Help her. Keep her alive. I'm going to finish this."

He nodded, his face grim.

The air was clouded with dust. Just a little further on, she could see Corypheus' dragon pacing, whipping its long grey tail. Veda pushed on towards it, Cassandra and Blackwall just paces behind her.

The dragon roared, baring a vicious mouthful of teeth, and the fight began.

* * *

Solas didn't know why Veda had chosen him to tend to the witch. He would have rather been fighting, close to her and to the artifact, instead of sidelined, performing a healing spell. Dorian or Vivienne might have done exactly the same and even Sera was capable of binding a head wound with a bandage.

He checked Morrigan's pulse, first at the carotid, then at the wrist. It was weak, but the rhythm was steady. She was unconscious and had lost some blood, but his spell had stabilized her condition. It was difficult to say what would come of the head injury, but she wasn't going to die – not immediately anyway.

In the distance, he heard the battle raging. The dragon's roars sounded increasingly like cries of anguish. They must be prevailing. The orb might still be recovered intact. His opportunity to reclaim it would soon be at hand.

Solas hadn't warmed to the human - this Morrigan, with her snaky eyes, her condescending tone and delusions of expertise - but it was hard not to feel a measure of compassion for her. She had a son. She'd been trying to help the Inquisition. It was unfortunate that the witch been foolish enough to drink from the Well of Sorrows, given her family history, but pride earned a harsh penance. He knew that from experience. Better to have her bound to Mythal than to see it happen to Veda.

When Solas was certain he'd done all he could, he cast a barrier around Morrigan's prone form and followed the sounds of battle.

He arrived to find the dragon dead on the ground, while Veda and the others fought Corypheus and a host of demons in a chaotic scrum.

A Pride demon stomped towards him and he fell back a few steps, slinging bolts of ice at its spiked legs. Cole appeared beside him, then suddenly he was flanking the monster, stabbing into its tough hide.

Across the field, he saw Blackwall hewing down another demon, while Sera struck down wisps with a steady barrage of arrows.

Veda circled Corypheus, wearing him down with blasts of lightning and flame. Her barrier was faltering, the purple light flickering around her.

He lifted a hand and restored it, draining the last from his well of mana.

Soon it would be over. Soon he would know if the foci was recoverable. If so, his true nature would become evident to them all. There would be no more need for deception. Veda would see why it was necessary to let him go.

* * *

Someone had given Veda a new barrier, all the better to shield her from Corypheus' desperate attacks.

She struck out at the magister with renewed confidence, drawing energy from the Veil to slam his spindly body with the force of an enormous fist. It didn't knock him down, but it swayed him. Red electricity simmered around him, shooting from his damaged orb.

Corypheus began to rave, to call out to his false gods for aid. They gave no answer. They probably didn't even exist.

The orb shot out of his hands and flew towards Veda, hovering over her open palm. It glowed a pale green now, the same colour as the power embedded under her skin. There was something so familiar about its magic. It was as if it belonged to her.

Corypheus fell to his knees, his eyes still locked on the lost orb. He slumped forward in despair, watching the orb float upon her hand.

Veda lifted her arm to the sky, towards the rift churning overhead. The orb's power lifted towards it in a pillar of golden light.

The rift closed. The sky calmed. The orb fell to the dust at her feet, nothing more than chunk of molten metal.

Veda stepped towards Corypheus, taking her time, savouring his look of defeat. Rocks crashed down around them, no longer held up by his power.

She should have been afraid, but instead she felt an incredible focus born of white-hot anger. This creature had called himself a god. He'd killed thousands of people for the sake of his own immortality. Now, she wouldn't just kill him. She would obliterate all traces of him from the world.

"You wanted into the Fade?" Veda reached out her hand, opening a rift around him.

Corypheus screamed as the energy burned into his corrupted flesh, seeming to consume him. The rift slammed shut. He was gone, leaving not a trace.

The ruins fell from the sky. Veda ran to lower ground, sweeping those she could find along with her.

She saw Cassandra race forward, pushing Varric out of the way as boulders crashed down beside them.

A few feet away, Iron Bull had hunched over Dorian in attempt to shield him from the worst of it.

Veda glimpsed Solas stalking across the ruin, heading towards the upper level. He wanted his precious artifact and evidently, he was willing to risk getting crushed like an insect to retrieve it. She sprinted back to him, catching hold of his arm.

"Are you insane? Get down."

"The artifact - I need to know. Stay back. Stay safe."

He slipped from her grasp, hurrying off in the wrong direction. The ground shook underneath her and she toppled into the dirt.

* * *

Solas stooped down to examine the shattered orb. The metal shell was black and cold in his hands. There was no power left. Not a trace.

He knelt in the dirt, running his fingers over the groves in the metal. What options had he left? Only two: go begging to Mythal or resign himself to powerlessness and perhaps even mortality. Neither was appealing.

He heard footsteps behind him.

"Solas?"

Veda. She'd tried to stop him. She thought he was just a scholar obsessed with an artifact, risking his life in a foolhardy attempt to preserve history. She didn't understand that its power was his power, what little he had left.

"The orb," he said. The words were so hollow. They couldn't convey the sum total of his loss. The orb had constituted his life, his magic, practically his soul - now it was little more than scrap metal.

"I know you wanted the orb saved. I'm so sorry."

More kindness. It would be better for them both if Veda learned to stop caring. He just couldn't bring himself to teach her how.

"It is not...your fault."

Solas set the orb down. It was no good to anyone now. He rose to his feet and the certainty rose within him: he would go forth. He would take the last course of action left to him. There could be no explanations, not even a farewell.

Veda was watching him, concern mapped across her face. "There's more, isn't there?"

He shook his head softly. What could he say to prepare her? Soon enough, there would be revelations. She might not know his true identity, but she would know that he had deceived and abandoned her.

"It was not supposed to happen this way," he said. "No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real."

Her face was solemn, revealing little. Did she know this was goodbye? Her lips parted as if she would speak...

"Inquisitor!" Cassandra called. "Are you alive?"

Veda's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, then she turned away, walked back toward her companions. They were all there, waiting to congratulate her.

He gazed down at her and at all of them from the top of the stairs. It was reminiscent of that night at Haven, when the good and the faithful had gathered around Veda, singing their Chantry song as if belief alone would be enough to light the darkness. They had clean consciences. He did not. That was the difference that kept him on the outskirts, looking in hungrily.

Veda was on the inside of the circle, safe and warm, in the company of friends. She would carry on without him. It was for the best.

Solas slipped back behind the wall, out of sight. He left, striding westward, while they were all too distracted to notice.

* * *

Veda glanced back at the place where Solas had stood, framed by the archway of the stairs. The space was empty. He'd disappeared.

She turned her attention back to company. It would not do to make a scene and go chasing after him. Likely, he wanted to be alone. The loss of the orb had clearly left him distraught, although she didn't understand what made him so attached to it.

She went back to Skyhold, assuming Solas would come back in a little while, once he'd had time to mourn. That's how it had been after the loss of his friend, Wisdom. Surely, the destruction of an artifact, however powerful, wouldn't hit him as hard.

Crowds gathered at the approach to Skyhold. They cheered at the victorious return of their Inquisitor and her comrades. The castle was lit as if for a party, giving off a soft glow that bespoke comfort and celebration.

Veda smiled and waved, searching the masses of well-wishers for one familiar face. Solas was not among them.

She ascended the staircase to greet her advisors. Leiliana, Josephine and Cullen were dressed in their finest, their faces glowing with pride. They'd gathered to meet her on the same promontory where they'd first announced her as Inquisitor and where she'd made her first speech.

When Veda reached the top of the platform, they bowed like actors who'd finished a bravura performance. She smiled at them all, shaking their hands. They'd supported her through everything, and this triumph was theirs as much as it was hers and that of her companions.

Leiliana sidled up to her. "A moment, my lady."

Veda listened to her spymaster's summary of the situation: her agents had found no trace of Solas. He'd simply vanished. She'd still been holding out hope, but this seemed definitive: he was gone and he didn't wish to be found, by her, maybe by anyone.

"I just don't understand. He didn't even say goodbye."

Or had he? That final assurance that what they'd had was real – had that been his parting gift? She found it all so ominous, his grief over the orb and the intimation that he foresaw something worse to come, something that might change how she remembered him.

"The two of you were close," Leiliana said.

Veda remembered the spymaster's notes in the margins of their pilfered love letters. If anyone knew how close, it was this woman who'd been tasked with monitoring the situation. For a second, she wondered if Leiliana and her agents were actually searching or if they were secretly pleased that the problem was neutralized. But that was just paranoid. Her advisors had better things to do than sabotage her love life. Anyway, it was Solas who was to blame, not any of them.

"Perhaps he had no choice?" Leiliana proffered. "He might return at any moment."

Veda doubted it. He'd wanted to get away. He couldn't stand to be near her, not anymore.

"Maybe," she said, trying to sound more hopeful than she was. It didn't work.

There was a party in the Great Hall, full of well-wishers. There were feasting tables covered in delicacies from the markets of Orlais and a dozen vintages of wine. She listened to Leiliana gush about all the nobles who wanted to meet her (what an appealing prospect – more Orlesian fops) and did her level best to calm Josephine, who was already fretting that nothing was good enough.

"I'm thinking of writing a book about all this," Varric told her.

Veda agreed to let him interview her a few times before he went back to Kirkwall. It saddened her to think Varric was returning to his home in the Free Marches, but she knew that Hawke and his friends there would always be his first priority. He made it sound as if he had something important to do there and time was of the essence.

It hurt even more when Dorian announced he was planning on going back to Tevinter. Veda had known it was coming, but selfishly she'd hoped that he might feel a little less inspired to change the world after they had the satisfaction of taking down Corypheus.

"I've booked my passage and I should set sail from Highever in two weeks," he said, sounding merrier than she thought he had any right to.

"What about Iron Bull?"

"What about him?" He grinned. "We'll keep in touch. I doubt I could escape that ox-man if I tried."

"Don't act so blase. I know you're serious about him."

"I am. I'm also serious about Tevinter. So, a little redeeming my country first and a little beating him with a stick later. In the meantime, he has you and the Chargers to keep him occupied."

"There's no way I could persuade you to delay, even for a month?"

Dorian rubbed his chin pensively. "Hmm. Let me think on that. I am susceptible to bribery."

"You know the state I'm in, with...everything. I could use some good company."

"You have Bull. You have Sera. You have Cole, creepy as he is." He ticked them each off on his fingers. "Cassandra, if you require a book stabbed or use of a human battering ram. Blackwall, if you need to be bored to sleep. You even have...Vivienne." He wrinkled his nose. "Vile, I know. Try not to jump from the battlements."

"Vivienne is going off to be Grand Enchanter and Cassandra is within a hair's breadth of being elected the new Divine. Besides, none of them is as handsome or as clever or as good at magic as you."

Dorian beamed. "Oh, you always know what to say. Keep talking like that and you'll never be rid of me."

"So you'll stay?"

"For a few more weeks. Because you're my friend. And also because you keep me in wine."

Veda took time chatting with everyone, pretending she was happy when her heart was as black and broken as Corypheus' orb. At last, the celebrations waned and she was able to make her retreat. She climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The party had gone on longer than she'd thought and already morning light was breaking through her balcony windows.

The dawn will come, she thought. They'd been right about that. Why then did she still feel as if she were wandering in the dark, snow swirling around her?

Veda opened the glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The sky was a hazy lavender, the sun a mere promise, a faint crest of gold behind the mountains.

She remembered gazing at this horizon with Solas at her side. That was the first time they'd kissed outside of the Fade. That was the first time he'd called her his heart and said he loved her. He spoke the words in Elvhen and she'd recognized them, but even if she hadn't known, his eyes would have given up the secret.

Where was he now? Did he think of her at all – if only to think how lucky he was to have escaped her ?

_No matter what comes, I want you to know that what we had was real._ That was what he'd told her.

Was it real? So much of it had happened in dreams. Now Solas was gone and Veda understood so little about what had occurred. Memories and visions dissolved like water through her cupped hands.

The world was laid out before her, dewy and fresh with morning. Veda should have been happy. She should have been excited at the opportunities she had to improve politics in Thedas, to better the lot of elves and of her fellow mages. Instead, all she wanted was to drown her thoughts in sleep.

Veda undressed and prepared herself for bed. As she lay her head on the pillow, she remembered the halla amulet tucked in her bedstand. Solas was gone now. It would hurt no one if she chose to wear it.

She slipped it over her neck, rolled over and shut her eyes. Within a few minutes, she was asleep and lost to the world.


	7. The First Dream: Death by Water

**The First Dream: Death by Water**

_A current under the sea_

_Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell,_

_He passed the stages of his age and youth, _

_Entering the whirlpool_.

_The Wasteland, _TS Eliot

* * *

Waves crashed against the sides of the skiff. Rain and salt spray drenched Veda's face. In the gale, Dragon Island was a distant shadow, its beaches toothed with rocks.

Cassandra prayed as she rowed:

_Holy Andraste,_

_bless us with your mercy  
_

_and protect us from all evil.  
_

_Let us not fall into temptation,_

_but lead us into the grace of the Maker._

They rode the crest of a wave, the boat tilting back and nearly flipping.

Dorian white-knuckled the side of the skiff. "Embarrassing to admit this, but I never actually learned to swim."

As a child, Veda has learned to float in a shallow pool under the willow trees, her hair streaming behind her. She could tread water, but that wasn't going to save her.

The wind lashed against them, turning the boat from side to side. One of the oars cracked in twain. Cassandra gritted her teeth and kept rowing, still muttering her prayers.

"He ate fish for dinner," Cole murmured. "Now the fish eat him."

Veda put her hand on his shoulder, quieting him. Even the drowned called out for remembrance.

Cold drops of rain hammered into their skin like nails. The sea flung the skiff to one side, then the other, water spilling over the sides. Another wave hit. The craft tipped.

Veda kicked and flailed, forcing her head above water. Salt water in her mouth, filling her lungs. She coughed and spit it out, searched frantically for the others, but they were not there.

The sea pushed the toppled boat towards her. She reached for it, but it came faster than she'd expected, bashing against her skull.

Her head spun, the water churning round her, a dark mouth ready to devour her whole. Her fingers scrapped against the slippery wood, seeking purchase but finding nothing. A wave splashed over her head and the undertow dragged her down, even as she kicked against it.

No sight. No sound. No breath. Her heart an explosion in her chest.

A shaft of green light pierced the black. It reached down, grasping her limp body and bearing it upward.

Veda broke the surface, gasping and choking. Her eyes stung and her lungs were on fire, but she was inexplicably alive and the sea had turned eerily calm. Moonlight played over the gentle tides. The storm was over, as quickly as it had begun.

Pale green light radiated from a lighthouse high on the cliffs of Dragon Island. She swam towards it, her body illuminated in its beam. The currents swirled around her like silk.

Veda reached the shallows, then washed up on the damp sand, the tide spilling over her, lapping at her feet. She clawed her way up the shore, seaweed tangling in her fingers.

There was something dark and jagged in the sand. She grabbed it, examining its familiar shape with dawning comprehension. It was a piece of fossilized bone, black and shining. The jawbone of a wolf.

"Inquisitor? Are you alive?" Cassandra's voice cut through the dark.

Veda looked up. Cassandra and Dorian and Cole were standing on the ridge, silhouetted by the light of the beacon. They were alive. But how?

"We must go back to Skyhold," Cassandra said.

Dorian nodded. "Indeed. Skyhold, it is."

Somewhere, far away, a wolf howled.

Cole stared at her from under the brim of his hat.

"Inquisitor, it's time to return to Skyhold." His voice was different. His voice was not his voice. "You must...Wake. Up."

Veda woke with a soft gasp, her head jolting up from the pillow. The sun shone in through the gaps in her bed curtains. What time was it? It couldn't still be morning.

Her fingers found her amulet, the smooth piece of halla antler lying at the hollow of her throat. Solas had come to her nightmare, just as he'd visited her dreams.

Had the amulet compelled him to be there? Did he have no choice but to watch? Veda doubted that was the case. She couldn't picture him making the mistake of binding himself so closely to the token that he'd be unable to resist its draw.

More likely, it had acted as an invitation, one Solas chose to accept. But if he'd wanted to see her, why hadn't he shown himself? He'd kept hidden the most of the time, letting her dream spin its own shape, interceding only when she'd needed it, when it'd become clear she was going to drown.

"Where are you?" she whispered. "What are you planning?"

The empty room offered no answers.


	8. The Moon

**The Moon Card:** _Between the towers, the moon appears like a gold coin, its face etched in profile. The dog and the wolf crane their heads back and howl. A crayfish creeps up from the depths of the tidal pool. The night is haunted by instinct, by what has been left unsaid, by what has been repressed and forgotten. _

* * *

Journeying through the Crossroads wasn't a true homecoming, but, for Solas, there was a wistful familiarity to the experience. It was like finding a signpost to one's village along a stretch of winding road.

He'd been among the first to propose the place: an anteroom between all possible worlds and the vastness of the Fade. His old magic was woven into much of the landscape. It created the illusion of solid earth, road-markers and carefully tended pathways where there had been only emptiness, a place of waiting.

The trees were one of the few parts of the project he hadn't been consulted in; those were the work of Ghilan'nain, who'd rounded out the branches to make them reminiscent of halla antlers. Some had not appreciated the design, but Andruil had championed the work of her protegee. Few were foolhardy enough to face the huntress in an open challenge, even before the Void turned her to madness.

Ironic, how the beginning of Arlathan had foreshadowed its end. Solas had spent decades in denial, in hope, shifting his alliances each time one of his former friends proved corrupt, before discovering his new allies were as bad as his old ones. Andruil was blood-mad, Ghilan'nain a watery-willed sycophant, Falon'Din a monster of vanity, Dirthamen heartless, Sylaise thoughtless and vague, June a coward, and Elgar'nan...well, he'd never been a serious option. In the end, Mythal had been the only one Solas had trusted, the only one who hadn't wholly disappointed him. When she'd died, he'd been left alone to contend with the chaos. Had she lived, they might have found a better solution than the desperate course of action he'd been driven to undertake.

At last, Solas caught sight of the old woman. Flemeth, she'd called herself once. She'd carried many names, suffered reverses and indignities in her struggle for existence. To him, she was only Mythal, his friend and mentor.

Mythal had taken few pains to disguise her avatar. Although the crone was human, she wore the goddess' coronet and bound her hair in strips of leather twisted into four curved plaits like dragon's horns. It was a peculiar experience, to look upon a dear friend and a near stranger at the same moment. Solas wondered if it would make what he had to do easier.

Mythal touched the Eluvian. A faint shimmer of blue rippled across the glass, then sank beyond it.

She'd transferred something across the mirror. A soul? Part of her essence? No doubt it was a measure taken to prepare against his arrival. Mythal had wanted him to see her do it, to know that she knew what he was here for. Her gift of foresight was one Solas had always admired and never possessed. If he'd had such a power, his choices would have been very different than they were.

Whatever preparations Mythal had made, it was too late to stop them. Best to take what power he could and seek out the rest later – assuming he survived this encounter.

"I knew you would come." Mythal's tone was rueful. He could hear the disappointment in it and it cut him.

Solas gazed at the back of the old woman's head, those fanciful horns. He was glad that she hadn't yet turned to face him. It would be difficult to meet Mythal's eyes staring out of that withered human face and report his failures. He deserved to die. They both knew it. But people don't always get what they deserve. They shared that knowledge too.

"You should not have given your orb to Corypheus, Dread Wolf."

That name, a sharp reminder of what he'd been and what the world had made of him. He'd preferred Solas, but that identity was lost to him now. Never again would he touch the mortal world with such gentleness. The Dread Wolf would go back to being dreadful and full of dread, hackles raised, muscles tensed, shadows uncoiling against the red beads of his eyes.

Fen'harel glanced down at the brickwork lining the path. Weeds grew in the interstices between the stones.

"I was too weak to unlock it after my slumber."

A poor excuse. Fen'harel had seen an opportunity, a foolhardy Tevinter magister who'd named himself Larius and had both the power and the knowledge necessary to open the foci. It'd been a matter of expedience. Leave the orb in a place the magister would find it. Let him perform his ritual and kill himself in the process. Scoop up the orb and reclaim his powers. Make the world right. That had been the plan, but everything had gone awry. He'd had to adjust his stance and with it, his way of thinking.

"The failure was mine," he said. "I should pay the price. But the People... they need me."

Alone, neither of them would be able to correct his wrong. Mythal possessed wisdom and the spark of magic he needed. What made him essential was his knowledge...and his folly. Fen'harel had been one of the principal architects of the Crossroads. He was the one who'd set the trap and he'd been the one to spring it. There were only two people living with the magical elements required to open the Eluvian that kept what was once Arlathan locked away from the physical realms. One was never going to know the full implications of her power – not if he could help it. The other was him.

"I am so sorry." Fen'harel bowed his head and she cradled it against her own, as if to console him. It was a motherly gesture, one born of ancient friendship, old grief. It should have reassured him.

It did not. He was not her son and she was not his mother. Mythal had many children, all daughters. She'd brought them up in her ways, if not in her wisdom. He had been useful to her, perhaps even dear, but he wasn't one of hers. The cord that had bound them had already frayed...how little it would take to break it.

The old woman drew back slightly and he sensed Mythal's gaze passing over his downturned face. He didn't look up. He was too ashamed, too afraid that she would read his intentions.

"I am sorry as well, old friend."

Fen'harel's hand struck against her solar plexus, reaching for her power and finding it, warm against his skin. The magic spread through him, electricity surging under his skin, fire filling his lungs. Strange, how it had just been there, waiting for him. He'd been expecting a fight, one he would probably lose, not this sudden compassion. It humbled him, but it worried him too. If this was mercy, it came with a price. It always did.

The old woman's body fell and he lunged forward, clasping it in his arms and easing it to the ground. The avatar's head tipped back, empty face staring up at the Crossroads' synthetic dome of sky. Her body was a petrified shell, hollowed out, broken. What lay before him was just husk of what Mythal had been. The sorrow of it clanged inside him, the sounding of a great bell.

The power flared in his eyes and he was blinded by the intensity of her light. The last of his fear subsided. Try as one will, one cannot break what is already broken.

Fen'harel stood, his vision clearing.

_Mythal? You are here?_

There was no answer. As he searched his mind, he found only the spark of her magic, not her presence, not her spirit.

Mythal must have sent the rest across the mirror, anticipating what he'd come to ask of her. Where had it gone? To another body? To an enchanted object? Perhaps one of her daughters had taken her inheritance.

Fen'harel took several deep breaths, adjusting himself to the renewed sense of strength thrumming through his body. It would take time to reclaim all of his powers, but already he began to see the tapestry of the cosmos more vividly and could detect loose threads in the weave with greater assurance.

It was enough. It would have to be. He had asked for much and Mythal had given nearly everything. He would not track down the last remnant of her spirit for use in his plan – not if there was a way to move forward without it.

Fen'harel took a last look down at the ashen husk that had once held his friend, searing the image into his mind. Later, he would take his punishment for this iniquity and for the others he'd committed, in word or deed, knowingly or in the ignorance of his pride. It would be a penance without hope of absolution. He would not protest it. For now, he would walk the Dread Wolf's path, breaking the bones of the world until they grew straight.

* * *

Veda knew two infallible ways to make Cole smile. One was to present him with a problem he could solve, a heartache he could ease. The other was even more simple, requiring but a little time and planning.

This time, she'd collected buttons. All kinds of buttons. Big ones. Small ones. Tiny pearl ones that occasionally dropped off Orlesian gloves. Glossy black ones used for dolls' eyes. Square buttons, triangular buttons, buttons shaped like flowers and hearts and lion's faces. Other times, it had been shiny coppers, dried peas or stones worn smooth by the sea.

It hardly mattered what the collection was – Cole just seemed to enjoy looking at a lot of small things gathered together. He liked to set them out in careful rows. He liked to count them. It seemed to make him feel safer.

Veda gathered enough buttons to fill an old pickle jar and brought it up to Cole's garret room to surprise him. She'd spent too much time mired in her own sorrow but she wasn't the only one who felt lost and adrift after Solas' disappearance. Cole had relied on him too, not only for company and conversation, but for also acceptance and answers to questions about his nature that still plagued him.

Cole stood in his usual place, his back to the corner, his hat pulled low on his brow.

"Hello," Veda said, shaking the jar of buttons. "I thought you might like..."

He glanced up, but he did not see her. His eyes were a cloudy white, empty of pupil and iris.

"I'm sorry, Cole, but with your gift, I fear that you might see the path I now must walk in solitude forever."

Veda felt a sensation like cold fingers pressing at the nape of her neck. It was Cole's voice, but it wasn't his _voice_. It was like listening to Dorian perform his mocking impression of Solas, only it wasn't funny. It was eerie and unutterably wrong.

"This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for."

_Once_ cared for? Past tense. Solas had already broken up with her. Now he was cutting out Cole too, who'd asked for nothing, less than nothing – only to help.

"Though you reach out in compassion, I must now insist that you _forget."_

The last word was not a request. It was a command.

Cole blinked. His eyes flickered back to their usual appearance. A little drowsy, a little blood-shot, but a reasonable approximation of a human boy's eyes, if that human boy didn't sleep much.

"I'm – what were we talking about? I'm ready to help people when you are."

"We weren't talking, Cole. Solas was talking. Through you."

Cole wrinkled his nose. "Solas?"

Fear crushed the air out of Veda's lungs. She gripped the jar of buttons so tightly she could feel her knuckles going white.

She refused to believe Solas would take away Cole's memory of him. It was too cruel.

Of course, she also hadn't thought Solas would break up with her in the most romantic place in Thedas. She hadn't believed him to be a liar. She'd never thought he was the type to abandon his friends without a word of explanation. As it turned out, she wasn't all that good at predicting his behaviour.

"Cole, you know Solas," she said. "He was your friend."

"My friend. Like you. Like Rhys used to be. Before he went away. I remember Rhys. I don't remember any Solas."

"Can you try? Think back. He can't have erased everything."

Veda rummaged through her memories for a happy time the three of them had shared, one she could be certain of. She was surprised and almost grateful to find how many good times she had tucked away.

"Do you remember when we made a snow fort?"

"Yes," Cole said. "You and me. No one else."

"No, Solas was there too. We made snowballs and you hit him with one, right on the top of his head. We laughed, but you didn't know why it was funny. Remember?"

"I remember snowballs. One of them melted in my hands."

That was not the response she'd been looking for.

Veda asked him about other memories: times when she'd played Dalish songs for them on her lyre, when Cole had lost his hat and the three of them had spent half the night searching for it in every room in Skyhold, the way Cole "borrowed" cupcakes from the kitchen and left them sitting on Solas' desk (sometimes to eaten, sometimes to be accidentally smooshed by a book and in one truly undignified incident, her left butt-cheek). Cole remembered what she'd done and sometimes, he'd even displace Solas' actions onto her just to make the story fit together. He claimed she was the one with the sweet tooth and a desk in Skyhold's rotunda. His mind performed the strange trick of putting Solas' words into her mouth. As Veda was a mage and a student of the Fade, sometimes the trick almost worked and she questioned what she remembered.

Finally, she only had one more card left to play.

"Your amulet!" She pointed at the pale stone worn around Cole's neck. "Solas gave you that amulet to keep you from being bound by mages."

"No. That was you again. Varric was there and he said I ought to be more human, so my feet would be heavy like stone. You said I was good as a spirit, floating, flitting, free, and that it was wrong to change. So I became what I was and it felt right again. There wasn't anybody else."

"There was." Veda sighed. "Solas made you forget."

Cole didn't seem perturbed by this at all.

He_ is _a spirit, Veda reminded herself. Spirits were ruled by intent and emotion, not memory or the dictates of experience. The past didn't have as much significance for them. It wasn't how they defined themselves.

"Why would he do that?" he said. "Making people forget - that's what I do. To help. Is Solas like me?"

"Like you?"

"A spirit."

It was a strange thought, but not one Veda was willing to dismiss out of hand. Solas' preference for the Fade was certainly unusual, perhaps even for someone who'd been in uthenera. But then again, when he'd touched her, he'd always felt very...physical, sometimes overpoweringly so. She'd never doubted that he enjoyed possessing a body – hers and his own. Was it possible for a spirit to become that rooted in the material world? Cole was a remarkably rare example of a spirit who'd acquired a physical form through the power of belief, but he was still very different from other beings of the material plane.

"I – I don't know. Maybe. Are spirits heartless bastards who lie to their friends?"

Cole looked confused. "I don't think so. Maybe? Spirits don't need hearts. But the Iron Bull says a bastard is the King of Ferelden. I'm not the King of Ferelden."

"No, you're not. I'm sorry. I was being sarcastic."

"That's when you say something, but you don't mean it. You mean the opposite thing. Like Varric."

Veda nodded, pleased that he'd remember her explanation of this strange mortal tendency. Varric's jabs at Cassandra had provided her with plenty of concrete examples.

Cole frowned. "What makes that different from lying?"

"It's supposed to be funny. That makes it a joke, not a lie."

When Varric lied, he did it with a wink and a grin. It was always to keep people entertained, to deflect from the harshness of reality without completely obscuring it. She didn't mind that kind of untruth, even if the exaggerations and artful rhetoric drove Cass up the walls.

When Solas lied, it was just a dead-end, a door slammed in one's face. There was nothing fun about it. She wondered if Cole would be able to detect the difference.

"You're angry at me?" Cole asked. "Your thoughts are very angry."

"No, not at you. Not at all. I'm angry for you. What Solas took from you – it wasn't right. He didn't have the right."

"I'm not sad. Remembering is what makes people unhappy," Cole said. "I could take it away. If you'd like."

"No. I told you that isn't an option for me." Veda handed him the jar of buttons. "This is for you."

The present had been a sorry attempt to make him feel better after Solas' disappearance. It was a case of too little, too late. What she should have given Cole was a jar full of memories, all the ones Solas had erased from his mind to cover his tracks.

Cole smiled, giving the jar a shake. "I like these. These things are remembering."

"Remembering? What do you mean?"

"From jackets, shirts, trousers, they bust loose, roll across the floor unnoticed. They hold everything together so tight, then everything falls apart. Each one is a story of how, when, why."

"You can see the people who lost these buttons? You know their stories?"

"A little. Flashing in my head. It's interesting. I can't help, but I can understand."

"Do you experience the same thing with your other collections?" She glanced up at the jars of stones and pennies, seashells and dried peas that she'd brought up before.

"Some. It's strongest with the things people touch. Stones and shells and peas – they give me time. Hours in the sun, the wind, the water. Growing. Wearing away. Persistence, but not memory."

"You aren't upset?" she said. "By what I told you about Solas?"

Veda should have been relieved. But she wasn't. Solas had disappeared from Skyhold and now he was editing himself out of their memories. He'd told her that what they had was real, but it felt more unreal, more unreliable, by the second. Soon, she would have nothing left to hang onto.

Cole shook his head. "I don't remember anything to be upset about. Is he someone we should help?"

She frowned, remembering Solas' message: _This fate is mine alone. Indeed, I would not wish it on an enemy, much less someone that I once cared for._ It was infuriating and sad and deeply troubling. Help might not be what Solas wanted, but by the Creators, it was what he needed.

She needed to stop this crazy trajectory he'd put himself on before he wound up destroying himself and dragging others along with him. And if she had a chance to yell at him while she thwarted his crazy plans, that would be all the better. Angry tirades could be helpful, too, when administered in the right doses.

"Yes, Cole. We're going to help."

Cole smiled for the second time that day. Buttons and helping: he liked them both.


	9. The Chariot

**The Chariot card: **_Outside a walled city, an armoured prince drives a stone chariot lead by two sphinxes. He reins in the mysteries, seeking purpose and cohesion in an unruly world. _

* * *

There was little change in Skyhold's rotunda, despite the mysterious disappearance of its former occupant. The scaffolding hadn't been moved. There were books still piled beside the couch where Solas had once slept and one unfortunate tome had been left splayed open against the arm of his chair.

That last detail made Veda wistful. She still felt a bit like that abandoned book, spine cracked, pages lying open that would never be read.

She picked it up, examining the last pages his eyes had glanced over. It was not one of his many dense academic texts on the Fade, but instead, an illustrated compendium of tales told by Keeper Gisharel of Clan Ralaferin.

On one page, there was the story of Fen'Harel and the Courser, one that every Dalish child knew by the time they could grip a bow or distinguish spindleweed from blood lotus. On the other, there was a drawing of Fen'Harel himself, a massive black wolf rendered mostly in silhouette except for his bared teeth and the gleam in his eyes.

It was an odd thing to catch Solas reading, Veda thought.

Few of the Dalish bothered with Gisharel's stories, either because they'd been fed similar ones since birth, because the lore had been watered down and made more palatable to human tastes or because they objected to the myths being published at all. If the books were popular, it must have been among City elves who were curious about the old ways or among curious humans, who found such stories exotic and treated them as fanciful inventions.

If Solas were inspecting them, Veda imagined it would be from interest in what the elven pantheon had become in the popular imagination – not because he required Gisharel's simplified history of Arlathan.

She glanced between the menacing wolf on the page and the stylized images of howling wolves Solas had featured in his mural. There was another one sketched on the wall now, an image hastily done in red conte: a large wolf standing over the impaled body of a much smaller dragon. He must have started it before the final battle. She wondered if he'd known that it would always remain incomplete.

So many wolves. It was like Solas to find the beauty in misunderstood things, yet their presence felt more purposeful than that. Was it how he thought of himself? Veda peered down at the snarling wolf on the page. It was hard to see much resemblance.

She set the book down and investigated the other items still cluttering his desk. There was a shard he'd kept from the Solassan Temple, a lantern, a paintbrush, a broken stick of conte and an unwieldy-looking torch resting on its side.

Another element out of place. If he'd been using the torch, it must have been for painting at night. But why not simply bring the lantern closer to where he was working? And why had he taken the trouble to move the torch away when the work was done? Wouldn't it have been easier to leave it on the scaffolding, as he did his paints and palettes?

Veda picked up the torch, examining it more closely. It wasn't scorched or charred, as if it had never been lit. She sniffed it. It smelled like the night air before a thunderstorm, a scent that she knew all too well. Veilfire. When there was smoke, there was fire. Where there was Veilfire, there was a secret waiting to be revealed.

She placed her hand over the wick of the torch, concentrating on a memory of fire: the hearth that blazed at her clan's camp, illuminating the faces of all who huddled around it. The Veilfire shot up around her fingers, carrying the remembrance of that warmth and security in its ethereal light.

Torch in hand, Veda approached the mural. The Veilfire cast its faint glow over the howling wolves and the Breach in the sky, showing nothing new, although she'd been so certain they contained a hidden meaning. It wasn't until she passed the first gap in the mural that an image materialized, filling in the empty space. The new image depicted Solas (the bald head was a dead giveaway) kneeling beside her prone form. He held her hand gently, palm upward, examining the mark. The glow of it shone upon his face. She stared at the image in shock. It was so...unexpectedly sweet. She'd been bracing herself for something terrible.

Veda edged along the wall and the Veilfire brought another image to life: two hands held out before a rift. The larger hand clasped the wrist of the smaller glowing one, thrusting it towards the rupture.

The memory of that first meeting at Haven crested over her like a wave of icy water. She hadn't been thinking about Solas then, beyond a moment's outrage at how readily he'd seized her arm and pushed her towards the rift. It had been hard to hold onto that spite when the anchor in her hand pulsed with energy, a miracle coursing under her skin, and she'd realized that the tear in the Veil was closing.

It was only later, thinking over what had happened, that Veda would recall Solas' grip upon her wrist and wonder at how decisive he'd been, the complete ease with which he'd touched her. It only made sense when she remembered that he'd been tasked with caring for her during those three days of fevered sleep, when it'd seemed that she'd never awaken. During those days, he would have wiped the sweat from her brow, drawn blankets over her when she shivered, soothed her when her sleep was troubled, defended her when mobs marched to the cabin, intent on her death. It made sense then that Solas' hand would encircle her wrist with an almost proprietary ease, that he wouldn't waste a moment on introductions and niceties, when he knew her so well – even if to her, he had been a complete stranger.

As Veda circled the rotunda, more and more images came to light: their first kiss in the dream of Haven he'd remade for her, how she'd tried to comfort him after Wisdom perished, their dance at Halamshiral - even his hands cupping her face as he removed her vallaslin, even that was recorded in the secret mural and hoarded away like treasure.

Solas had painted some of these images after he'd left her, when he refused to speak to her of anything beyond duty and the defeat of Corypheus. She'd thought him cold and unfeeling because that was the face he'd shown her, yet in the quiet of the night, he'd painted every emotion he'd refused to indulge during the day.

Every secret image was a confession of love, so personal that each line and curve gave off a faint emanation of yearning, each colour seared her eyes with unspoken longing. It gave Veda hope.

She gazed at his last portrait of her. The features and colouring were recognizably her own, but he'd made her skin more luminous, imbued her with a quiet grace that spoke more of the painter's heart than her own beauty. He'd painted himself in the moment when he'd removed the last of her vallaslin and she was struck by how well he'd remembered even the smallest details of that precious final happiness, before everything had gone awry.

There was only one part of the scene that was out of place. Instead of depicting the waterfall and the stone halla that stood watch over the grotto, Solas had put a mirror in the background, between their kneeling bodies. The mirror didn't reflect anything around it, but instead seemed to ripple with ominous shadows. Not just any mirror then, but an Eluvian.

Veda thought back to something that Cole had read from Solas' thoughts during their last days in company: "_He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same. You're real and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't. They sleep, masked in a mirror, hiding, hurting, and to wake them..." _

Solas had interrupted Cole before he could go any further, but the mention of a mirror where people were hiding had immediately set her mind whirling with thoughts of the Eluvians.

Now here was another mysterious mirror, depicted in the space between the painted figures, an obstacle in what should have been their deepest intimacy. Was it an Eluvian, or what lurked behind that Eluvian, that had stopped Solas cold in the midst of their kiss?

If he'd escape into the Crossroads as Morrigan had once done, it would explain how he'd managed to elude Leiliana's agents so thoroughly. Of course, they'd let him study Morrigan's Eluvian and even given him the aid of Michel de Chevin, who remembered the routes he'd taken through the Eluvian network in his travels with Celine and Briala.

Veda had few other clues. Exploring the Eluvians was the most promising place to start. She put out the veilfire in a quick gesture of dismissal. The Crossroads would be the next domain of the Inquisition.

* * *

Fen'Harel watched the two elves blundering along the paths of the Crossroads, looking less like guards than like children lost in the woods. Their impractical clothing and bare faces marked them as city elves. Their accents marked them as Orlesian. Followers of Briala, no doubt. They might be at ease wending their way through servants' corridors and Alienage alleys, but they were bereft of magic or the primeval spirit of the Elvhen. The Crossroads would be an uncomfortable place for those unfamiliar with the arcane.

The male elf was the more inquisitive of the two, although his curiosity was only exceeded by his foolishness. He stopped to examine a shattered Eluvian, tracing his fingers over the cracks in the glass.

His female companion glared at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "You aren't supposed to touch that."

"You aren't in charge, so don't order me around."

"They're Briala's orders."

"Relax. It's not like I'm using the password. Besides, it's broken."

"Orders are orders. Besides, you fall into one of those things, I'm not pulling you out."

Fen'Harel followed them, the Veil wrapped around his body like a cloak, obscuring his shape so that he melted into the mists. He wanted to see how they would use the gift of the Crossroads, but it seemed that they had little understanding of the Eluvians or their potential.

Ostensibly, the elves were on patrol, but not even they knew why these abandoned paths needed protection. They performed their walkabout, then returned to the mirror from which they'd entered.

The woman pressed her palm against the Eluvian's murky glass. "Fen'Harel enansal."

_The Dread Wolf's blessing_. It had been a long time since he'd heard those words. Nowadays, his name was invoked only in curses.

The glass glimmered with pale blue light. Her hand pushed through the glass, then the rest of her disappeared behind the mirror. The other guard followed behind her, almost tripping over his own feet in his eagerness to escape.

Fen'Harel was almost tempted to smile at the irony. Callow children playing with toys they couldn't begin to comprehend. This is what he'd sacrificed his entire world to create. This was his legacy.

* * *

Veda unlocked the door and slipped into the darkened room.

Morrigan's Eluvian was still propped against the wall, collecting dust. To the casual observer, it would seem a poorly made mirror, its glass holding only the dimmest reflections, warped shadows flitting across its surface like ripples on a still pond.

The Eluvian been too unwieldy for Morrigan to carry with her when she and Kieran had made their sudden, mysterious departure from Skyhold. Josephine, ever the diplomat, had offered to have it shipped to Morrigan's new location, an offer that had amused the apostate immensely.

"Truly?" Morrigan smirked. "'Tis a kind gesture, I'm sure, but there is one insurmountable problem: I have no intention of revealing my whereabouts to anyone. I remain an apostate, you'll remember. One no longer under the protection of the Orlesian empress. Consider the Eluvian a gift. In time, your Inquisition may have need of it."

Thus, the Eluvian had remained behind lock and key, a remnant of elven magic that made for a strange contrast with the altar to Andraste down the corridor. Veda had considered its presence every time she passed through the garden and glimpsed the door that hid it, but she was too mired in her sadness to think of a good use for it – until now.

Veda put her marked hand against the mirror. The glass around her palm glowed faintly, as if it recognized the magic that had created the Anchor, yet the glass didn't melt into the shimmering portal that had taken her and Morrigan to the Crossroads. Something was wrong. Something was missing.

Veda thought back to the actions Morrigan had performed each time she'd opened the portal. She hadn't seen the witch with a keystone or any other magical tool.

Had Morrigan's lips moved as she opened the Eluvian, murmuring a password so softly that only the glass had taken in her words? No. Veda had been standing too close to her for that.

What other ways could one use to pry open a magical door? Kieran had passed through the Eluvian to the Fade with little effort, but he was Morrigan's flesh-and-blood, Mythal's grandson and possessed an Old God's soul besides. Veda had hoped the Anchor might grant her similar powers, but if so, Morrigan's mirror wasn't affected.

Other doors had yielded to elemental spells, so she tried a burst of flame, a jagged dagger of lightning, a crackling trail of frost. The glass remained solid, impervious to every effort.

Veda gritted her teeth together. She would open it again. It was simply a matter of time and study. Consulting with Dorian might help, especially if she appealed to his pride. Although he cultivated an air of effortlessness, in truth, he gnawed away at questions of magical scholarship like a Mabari with a bone. Together, they'd find a way to get through the Eluvian, even they had to do the magical equivalent of Cassandra ramming her way through a poorly bricked wall.

Veda locked the room and went in search of Dorian. He wasn't ensconced in his favourite leather armchair in the main library or in his room attending to his elaborate regimen of "me time," so she assumed that she'd find him in the tavern.

As she entered the courtyard, a messenger came barreling towards her. "Lady Inquisitor, Commander Cullen wishes to see you at the front gates."

"What's going on?"

"There's an unknown force gathering across the bridge."

"I see." Veda found it hard to believe anyone would try to lay siege to Skyhold, not if they were in their right minds. Perhaps this was another offended Avvar, preparing to fling goat carcasses at their walls?

"I'll be right there."

The messenger nodded, seeming relieved at her quick assent."Thank you, my lady."

She found Cullen pacing before the gates, Skyhold guardsmen in ranks behind him.

"I trust you've heard about our latest 'visitors'?" he said. "They haven't the numbers to mount an attack, but they could pose trouble for our merchants and noble guests."

"Do you have any idea who they are?"

Cullen frowned, his brow furrowing. "They're...elves. Not the Dalish, I should think. No aravels, for one thing, and their attire is peculiar to say the least."

Veda's heart leapt into her throat. Perhaps Solas was among them. He'd been fascinated by Briala's rebellion. It was possible that he'd gone to Valle Royaux to see it for himself.

"City elves? Maybe Briala's people?"

The commander shook his head. "These don't look like any city elves I've ever seen. First off, they're much better armed."

"Have you a spyglass? I'd like a closer look before we make any decisions."

Veda knew she shouldn't be jumping to conclusions. There were millions of elves in Thedas and any of them might have reason to come to Skyhold, whether for work, for shelter or to appeal for help. There were also more than a few elven bandits who might think the Inquisition's guests would make for easy pickings. She had no cause to believe that it was Solas out there, besides the fact that her heart wished it so.

Cullen handed her a brass spyglass and they climbed the battlements to survey the approach to Skyhold.

The wind whipped and whistled around them at that dizzying height. Beneath them, the castle bridge looked pitifully frail, a narrow path arcing over an icebound canyon that seemed as wide and fathomless as the Waking Sea.

At the far end of the bridge, there was a small encampment, perhaps twenty souls altogether. Many of those assembled wore armour. Not cheap leather, either. Their metal pauldrons gleamed in the afternoon sun.

Cullen was right. Few city elves would be able to afford such armour, even if there were merchants willing to sell it to them.

Veda leaned against a turret, bringing the spyglass up to her eye. She trained her gaze on the mysterious soldiers and adjusted the barrel of the spyglass to make the image as clear as she could.

She saw a hooded elven man with a bow on his back. Not Solas. Not even close. Yet...could it be – Abelas?

No, the profile was all wrong, although the costume exhibited some notable similarities. Another ancient elf? One of Abelas' followers?

But what would possess Abelas to bring Mythal's followers to Skyhold? Veda had already offered him the opportunity to join the Inquisition, an invitation that he'd flatly refused. None of the ancient Elvhen seemed like the type to change their minds, then come creeping back with their tails tucked between their legs. They were the sort who'd staunchly hold to their principles, even if it meant certain extinction. They were Solas' people, through and through.

"Your assessment, Inquisitor?" Cullen asked.

"I wish to parley."

"Are you certain? They've sent no messenger to the gates."

"I recognize these people. They're the Elvhen that we spared at the Temple of Mythal."

Cullen blinked, raking a hand through his hair. "Wait – you're telling me, those are ancient elves? Immortal, ancient elves?"

"I'm not sure whether they're immortal or if they just avoid aging with uthenera – but yes, they're very old and very...odd."

"I should say so. Who brings a friendly force to a castle without sending a messenger ahead?"

A few minutes later, Veda sat astride her hart, riding across the castle bridge towards the Elvhen encampment. Standard bearers marched beside her, holding aloft a banner of the Inquisition and a white flag signaling their peaceful intentions. Behind them came a line of guardsmen, in case Abelas and his friends decided to hit the white flag with a barrage of arrows.

They'd come about halfway across the bridge when a party of Elvhen emerged from the encampment and started towards them. Veda recognized Abelas at their head and waved hopefully. He didn't wave back – it could be that he didn't know the meaning of the gesture or it could be that he didn't care to greet a shem like her. She was still stinging from the way he'd dismissed her and all her fellow Dalish at the Temple of Mythal.

Abelas gestured towards Skyhold. "This is the Inquisition, I take it?"

"It is indeed." Veda didn't bother to conceal her pride. She and her friends had found Skyhold a wreck and had turned it into a force to be reckoned with, not only in Fereldan or Orlais, but through all of Thedas. Surely that was worth celebrating.

Abelas' expression was sour and decidedly uncelebratory. "You occupy an Elvhen ruin. Are you incapable of building for yourselves, that you must take the leavings of my people?"

What a promising start. Abelas certainly was a cheery sort.

Veda took a deep breath, pushing past her annoyance. "We came to Skyhold after the destruction of Haven. I know little of its history. Perhaps you'd like to share?"

"You'd do better to ask your Elvhen companion. Solas, as he called himself. He knows its story better than I. If I'm not mistaken, it was once his stronghold."

Skyhold had been Solas' stronghold? From how long ago? It was another thing Solas had kept from her. She could fill a castle with his lies and half-truths and omissions and there still wouldn't be enough room.

Underlying her disappointment, Veda felt a hint of amusement. Solas was not only an ancient elf but...unexpectedly wealthy. Vivienne might actually have given the affair her seal of approval if she'd known he was a rich apostate hobo of impeccable pedigree whose estate they were living in. Madame de Fer was practical like that.

"I'd ask him many things if I could. You see, Solas isn't here anymore."

Veda watched Abela's face, hoping that his expression would give something away, a clue to Solas' whereabouts, but she found only a frown, a look of genuine dissatisfaction.

"That is unfortunate. My purpose in coming here was to speak with him. We have undertaken this journey for naught."

"Banal nadas, Abelas," Veda said, unable to resist the urge to throw in one of her few phrases of ancient Elvhen. "What is it you needed from Solas? The Inquisition might be able to help."

"That is unlikely."

"But not impossible. Come, your people have had a long trip. They're tired and no doubt in need of supplies. Meet with me in Skyhold, while they rest in barracks. If you decide that an alliance won't work, you'll be free to leave and you'll go in better condition than you came."

"Why should I trust you with my people's lives? Out here, they may be cold and tired, but they are free. Once they venture inside your walls, they put themselves into your power."

"That works both ways, doesn't it? I'd be letting you into my fortress. If you came with bad intentions, you could harm us as well. But we haven't hurt one another yet and I don't see any reason why we should start now. If you'd actually deign to talk to me, I think you'd find we have more than a few goals in common."

Abelas turned, conferring with two of the other priests in Elvhen. Beneath their hoods, their eyes were veiled in shadow and it was hard to discern how they were taking her offer. At last, Abelas signalled that they'd come to a decision.

"We will gamble upon your honour. Treat my people well, Inquisitor, and you will have no cause for complaint."

* * *

Within hours, the Elvhen had moved into Skyhold, provoking a number of incidents with worried nobles and merchants fearful that the Inquisitor had invited Dalish bandits into the castle. Abela's people settled into the barracks where the off-duty scouts were stationed. By that evening, reports were circulating that the new elven scouts had taken a public bath en masse in the open room, but aside from a no-shame approach to nudity, they were a quiet group, taking their meals in the courtyard as they watched the soldiers practicing.

Predictably, Sera didn't like them.

"They're right creepy, eh? Sometimes you walk by them and they're whispering to themselves, all quiet-like, and their eyes aren't looking right. They're looking at _nothing_." Sera shivered. "And that Abelas. He's barmy. Who names himself 'Sorrow'? 'Oh, hi, I'm _Sorrow_. Pleased to meet you – not!'"

Initially, Veda had arranged to meet Abelas in the main hall, but he said he'd preferred the open air and so she suggested they talk over a meal in the garden's gazebo. During the dinner hour, most of the Skyhold's guests were in the banqueting hall and they would less likely to be interrupted if she found an opportunity to question him about Solas or the Eluvians.

It was dusk by the time they'd settled into the gazebo and fireflies circled the branches of the garden's birch tree. Abelas neglected his food, watching them.

"It's been a long time since I last ventured outside the Temple. The world is much changed," he murmured.

"It must be disturbing to see."

Abelas glared down at his plate as if the food had done something to offend him personally. Admittedly, the potatoes were a little overcooked, but Veda thought the rest quite tasty. Of course, the food in Arlathan was probably vastly superior, like everything else those smug Elvhen invented. Sometimes she just wanted to box their ears.

"There's little use in complaining," he said. "It is what it is. The end of my age was little better."

"What happened at the end of your age? Last time we spoke, you said Mythal was murdered and that Fen'Harel didn't do it. Who did? And what happened then?"

He gave a raspy chuckle, clearly out of practice with this laughing business. "Are the modern elves all so full of questions?"

"Yes. Probably. It's sad that ancient elves aren't full of answers."

"In my time, it was considered poor manners to bring up unpleasant subjects over food. Even among the slave class."

Ouch.

"I see. And you think I'm one of the slave class?"

"The vallaslin you wore marked you as belonging to Dirthamen. In my time, you might have been one of his priests, one of his slaves or the slave of one of his followers," he said. "Now those markings are gone, along with your service. This was the doing of the one who calls himself Pride?"

It took Veda a moment to realize he was referring to Solas. She nodded.

"I'm Dalish. We wore the markings to honour the Creators. We didn't know they were slave markings in the Elvhen empire. Solas told me the truth. I let him take them away."

Abelas eyed her bare face, looking at her with what seemed like a new regard. "That is not an act done lightly. The last time such rites were performed, the empire fell."

His gaze traveled down her neck and lingered on her chest, as if contemplating the swell of her breasts under her robe.

"Excuse me? Abelas? My eyes are up here."

Abelas glanced up, completely unapologetic. "Among other things, I was noting your amulet. Pride's handiwork. You were what to him? His lover?"

Veda's cheeks flushed, her composure undone by the directness of his question.

"That explains much," he concluded.

Veda came to a conclusion too: that Abelas had all the emotional sensitivity of Cassandra's right boot, but with none of its social grace. She would have been tempted to explain this as a product of centuries in uthenera, but Solas had slept longer and he was capable of astounding suavity when he tried. Maybe Abelas just didn't see a reason to try.

"Does it? I'm glad you find it so helpful, because it explains absolutely nothing to me."

"You are not of my people, Inquisitor, but we do have one thing in common: we both seek this Solas," he said. "Before I left the Temple, he said something to me that I didn't fully comprehend. I have since grasped his meaning and I wish to learn what he intends to do for our kind."

Veda narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Solas said he told you that he hoped you found a new name."

"Your Solas has been known to bend the truth."

Of course. Solas' translations had been just as opportunistic as the ones Morrigan had offered. He'd shared what he wanted to her know and played dumb about everything else.

"In other words: worst translator ever."

Abelas shook his head, his face evincing a rare and fleeting smile. It suited him. "A cunning man will be cunning. One might as well blame the wolf for his teeth."

Later, as Veda prepared for bed that night, her mind returned to that phrase. How peculiar and yet how apt it was that Abelas should compare Solas to a wolf. Wolves on the pages of books. Wolves on the walls. Wolves in the hills. Stone wolves surveying every expanse in the Exalted Plains, guarding every glade in the Emerald Graves. What did it mean?

Veda lay down, pressing her cheek into the pillow and drawing the blankets up to her chin. If only one could puzzle it out. She fell asleep before she could solve the mystery.


	10. Second Dream: What the Thunder Said, 1

**The Second Dream: What the Thunder Said (Part 1)**

_...And upside down in air were towers_

_Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours_

_And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells._

_In this decayed hole among the mountains_

_In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing_

_Over the tumbled graves..._

_\- "The Wasteland", TS Eliot_

* * *

The forest was dark but for a flicker of torchlight in the glade. Veda crouched at the foot of a wolf statue, watching the hunters' shadows darting along the tree trunks, lengthening over the earth, their feet quiet and sure, their bows slung on their backs. They did not waste words.

It was their prisoner who broke the night's silence, an oafish-looking human boy with a doughy face and wide, frightened eyes.

"Please, you don't have to do this. It wasn't me, I swear it."

The boy tripped over a gnarled oak root, bumping against one of his captors. The hunter shoved him to the ground.

He yelped, falling to his knees, his hands splayed in the dirt. The boy's legs were encased in hard leather leggings starred with circles of metal. Veda blinked, realizing that the circles weren't studs, but the heads of nails driven through the leather.

_This is a dream_, she reminded herself. _You don't have to stay here._ Yet she already felt involved; she couldn't turn away.

The boy began to weep, clutching his wounded legs. "Oh Maker, no. Please. My ma has money. She can pay you. Take me back and she'll give you whatever you want..."

"We don't want your filthy money, shem," one of the hunters said. The torchlight played tricks across her face, obscuring her features."We want to see you run."

Was her voice familiar? No, Veda couldn't place it.

"We'll even give you a head-start," said another of the group. "You have to the count of a hundred. After that, we come."

Veda scanned the glade, guessing at the hunters' numbers. There were five in plain view and at least four stationed on the outskirts or in the trees. Their camp wouldn't be far either.

If she used her magic immediately, Veda figured she'd be able to disable a few of the hunters on the sidelines with a static cage. That would turn the rest against her, however, and a fight would be unavoidable.

Veda didn't want to kill anyone if she could avoid it, even in her dreams. Killing in the Fade or dying in the Fade – such things were more complicated than they seemed, and more dire. If she had learned anything in the past year, it was that what happened in dreams could be real. It could change one forever.

Veda stepped out of the shadows, holding her staff before her, so that all could see what she was. Even a lone mage was not to be trifled with. "Aneth ara. What game are you playing so late at night?"

The hunters reached back to draw their bows.

She lifted her staff towards them, the hint of a cold spell frosting the air.

"That isn't wise, friends. I've seen your snipers in the trees. If I'd wanted violence, I would have attacked first."

"Then what is it you want, flat-ear? You may mimic our words but that doesn't make you one of the People."

"Flat-ear? You speak to the First of Clan Lavellan. I'm as Dalish as you," Veda said. The words came easily to her lips but she wasn't certain she believed them. "What I want is for all of you to return to your camp in peace. You can leave your pet human with me. I promise to take good care of him."

"That's not going to happen, flat-ear. This human killed our best halla. He's -"

"I didn't know it was theirs!" The boy cut in.

"It wore a collar," the hunter said.

Veda edged forward, positioning herself in front of the boy. She drew upon her mana, wrapping a shimmering barrier of magic around them both. "The loss of your halla is unfortunate. Ir abelas. Let the boy pay restitution and make amends. Torturing him gains you nothing."

"It gains us sport and Andruil's blessing. We don't ask for more."

"Murdering a whimpering child isn't going to impress Andruil," she said. "You show such valour too, hobbling him so he can't run. At least your halla had a chance to flee."

"Enough words. You have a choice, flat-ear: you can stand aside and leave us to our prey or you can join the game. On the human's side. You may have magic but we've slain mages before."

They would leave her no choice. While they still hesitated, Veda lifted her staff and sent a powerful surge of lightning sizzling towards them.

She grabbed the human, pulling him to his feet, even as arrows pelted her barrier, weakening its protection. If they moved fast enough, they could take cover behind the wolf statue. From there, it would be easier to defend against the archers in the trees.

The boy groaned, leaning so heavily on her shoulder that he nearly plowed her over.

"Stop that."

"It hurts."

"Deal with it. We haven't far to go, but this barrier won't hold forever."

Arrows rained down on them. Each one cut at Veda's strength. The hunters of this clan might be bloodthirsty morons, but they knew how to string a bow and make their darts sing. They also had an unfortunate habit of aiming in the places where her barrier was already starting to waver. She struggled to bind the threads of her magic tighter.

At last, they neared the statue. Veda pushed the boy behind it and dove after him, landing in a clump of fan-like ferns that scratched against her face and arms.

"We've lost them?" The boy's expression was stupidly hopeful. He obviously didn't know the Dalish.

"No. Not even close."

She could hear their footsteps approaching, light as summer rain, but all the more dangerous for that. They would try to circle the monument from both sides and flank her.

"How much are you bleeding?" she asked him.

"I don't know."

Removing the leggings now might kill him. If one of the nails had pierced an artery, he would bleed out too quickly for her to heal him. Yet, if the boy ran any further in those cruel leggings, he'd die for certain. They would have to stay put for now. Veda put her back to the monument and readied her magic, recharging her barrier as she awaited the onslaught.

The careful footsteps stopped, then she heard a rustling in the foliage and the snap of branches. Whatever had been lurking in the bushes, it was big. She could hear the weight of it, the strength of its muscles ripping through the vines. There was a guttural growl. One of the hunters actually gasped.

Veda corrected herself: whatever they'd disturbed, it must be massive. A great bear? A wyvern? Few creatures could elicit such fear from an experienced hunter.

She heard a sickening thwack and the first image that came to her mind was Iron Bull's maul smashing into a sack of watermelons. She didn't have to peek around the side of the statue to know that it wasn't a watermelon that was being crushed and torn.

"Fall back!" someone hollered. "Now!"

Feet pounding against the earth, quick bodies pushing through the underbrush, too desperate now to avoid snapping twigs or tramping down blades of grass. She listened to them flee, staying silent, staying still. The beast loped after them, snarling.

The boy groaned beside her. She grasped his arm and put her finger to her lips. Quiet. They must be quiet. The hunters had been a threat. The creature might not notice them. Unless it was hungry.

The night settled. Somewhere in the grass, the crickets began their keening. Veda crept closer to the boy, using the glow of the Anchor to illuminate his leather leggings.

"If I'm to heal you, we'll need to remove -"

He slapped her hands away. "No. I'm – they took my small clothes."

Veda rolled her eyes. Stupid shem. As if she cared what his bits looked like. "Unless you're hiding a griffin in there, I've seen it before. Now would you like to live or preserve your maidenly modesty?"

The boy had the good sense not to protest any further.

She undid the clasps and peeled back the leather leggings. His legs were a mess. She drew back each nail with care, healing the wounds one by one, working from his thighs down to his feet.

At last, she was able to free him from the leggings. The boy immediately cupped a piece of elfroot over his crotch, as if she was just dying to get a look at him.

"Can you move?"

He wriggled one leg, then the other. "Yeah. I can. Thanks."

"See if you can stand."

"Bare-arsed?"

"Unless you'd rather sit here and wait for whatever got those hunters to come back?"

"Okay, okay. But go over there while I do it, huh?"

Veda had no problem with that. She circled the wolf statue, sitting on the plinth beside its great stone paws. Someone had laid flowers at its feet. She picked one up and sniffed it, its petals tickling her nose. It didn't smell like anything.

She glimpsed a flash of something white at the corner of her eye and the flower slipped from her fingers. From her peripheral vision, she could tell it was too small to be the beast that had attacked the hunters. It was watching her, its movements slow and deliberate.

Veda turned her head, looking at it square on. This couldn't be the monster that had made the hunters its prey. This was a lone wolf, an elegant, white-furred fellow. His footsteps were gentle against the earth.

The wolf sat back on his haunches, regarding her with an expression that seemed intelligent and almost amiable.

She gave him a nod. "Andaraan atishan, ma falon."

The wolf opened its mouth – not to snarl, but to speak. "You have seen this before? This game the Dalish play?"

Veda blinked, trying to reconcile the familiar voice with the unusual form. "Solas? Why are you a wolf?"

"This is your dream. You make the rules. Or have you forgotten? You didn't have to participate in that drama."

"No, but I chose to. I think some part of me...needed it," she said. "To answer your question, I've never witnessed that sort of torture. It wasn't my clan's way. But when I went to the Arlathvhen, there were whispers. Even among the more thoughtful clans, there are people who enjoy cruelty and are pleased to call it justice."

"They have a special name for this torment. Have you heard it?"

"No."

"They call it Fen'Harel's _Teeth_." In pronouncing the last word, the wolf Solas had to bare his own teeth. They were wickedly sharp. "Whenever I think the Dalish have ceased to surprise me, they come up with something new."

"I'm well aware of how you feel about us."

"You're not them."

"There are plenty of Dalish who aren't crazed sadists. I'm not some great rarity." Veda glanced back in the direction of the boy. "Hey, human? You're still conscious?"

Solas somehow managed to give her a wry look, even in wolf form. "You're seeking your naked human friend?"

"'Friend' would be stretching it. But yes, he's human and not wearing any breeches, which would probably amuse Sera to no end."

"I suspect it would."

Veda peered around the corner of the monument. The boy was gone, leaving leather leggings and a scattering of nails in his wake.

"I observed your unclothed acquaintance sneaking off into the bushes. You needn't worry about him. He's served his purpose."

"His purpose?"

"As a projection. You required a hapless human to save to make this dream work, so your sleeping mind created one. Likely an amalgam of other unfortunates you've met in your travels."

It sounded credible enough, the way he explained it. The boy really had been too dumb to live except as a creation of the Fade.

She watched him, still unnerved by the fact that she was conversing with Solas in the guise of a talking wolf. Even in another's shape, his movements were preternaturally graceful, as fluid and nimble as she imagined the flow of his thoughts must be. "Are you a projection?"

"Perhaps."

Dignified, capable - and utterly evasive. He may have changed his form, but Solas had changed little else.

"I don't think so," she said. "You told me about Fen'Harel's Teeth. I wasn't aware of that name. A projection would only know what I know."

"An interesting point. Perhaps one part of your mind forgot the name while the other one remembered it? It's not inconceivable."

"Just improbable."

Solas gave one of his splendid chuckles. Veda hadn't heard one in so long. It had to be one of the most beautiful sounds in the world, at least to her ears.

"Welcome to the Fade. Everything is improbable here."

"Fine. Explain the monster then."

"The monster?"

"The creature that jumped out of the bushes and chased the hunters. I didn't do that."

"Are you certain you didn't have a hand in it? There are indirect methods of summoning aid."

He looked so innocent, that little white wolf. That made Veda certain he wasn't.

"In other words, you helped me," she said. "The way you did when I was having that nightmare about drowning."

"I was there. You extricated yourself from the worst of it. I simply provided...encouragement."

"You know that you don't have to be here?" Veda didn't want him to leave. She was enjoying his presence and his apparent comfort in her company too much. Yet, if he came under compulsion, she would not want him enthralled.

The wolf turned, pacing a few steps, his downy tail whisking from side to side.

"The amulet. I promised that if you wore it, I would come. You wear it now. Remove it and I'll know I'm unwelcome."

She touched the fragment of halla antler, feeling it warm against her fingers as if glowing with his magic. "You bound yourself to the amulet."

"I didn't bind myself to the amulet." Solas frowned, as if contemplating the weight of what he'd chosen. "I bound myself to a vow. There's a difference."

"I wear this amulet because you made it for me," Veda said. "It gives me happiness just to know it's there against my skin. I didn't do it to manipulate you. Do you wish me to take it off when I awaken?"

"I..." He paused, his eyes lingering on her face as if committing each feature to memory. "No. I mean, it is your choice. The amulet belongs to you. A part of me will always belong to you."

Veda was about to formulate an answer to this when she saw two mages approaching, followed by a dozen hunters and warriors.

Solas drew up beside her, watching their approach.

She recognized the elder mage as Phanahel, Keeper of Clan Inashiran. The younger mage was even more familiar: Aleris, Clan Inashiran's First and unfortunately, _her_ first as well. They'd met at the Arlathvhen several years ago. At Arlathvhens, it was common for Clan Firsts to cut loose a little in each other's company.

"Veda of Clan Lavellan," Phanahel pointed his staff at her like an accusing finger. "You will pay for the murder of our hunters."

"I didn't kill your hunters. They called me flat-ear, chased me and ran into a beast that was more than they could handle."

Aleris stared at the white wolf standing by her side. "Likely a demon you summoned. Perhaps it hides itself in the shape of a wolf companion?"

"If I had a demon in tow, do you think I'd be letting you stand here and accuse me of murder?" Veda retorted. "In any case, your hunters are far from innocent. Perhaps they failed to mention that they'd left camp to play Fen'Harel's Teeth with a human captive?"

Phanahel looked at Aleris. Aleris didn't meet his eyes. He knew. He knew and he'd done nothing.

"It doesn't matter," Phanahel said. "They're our kin. They will be avenged."

"Don't be ridiculous. You know me. You know my clan..."

"I _knew_ you," Aleris corrected her. "Once. You had vallaslin then. You weren't claiming to be the Herald of And-" He stopped short, mouth agape, the colour draining from his face.

Phanahel looked even more horrified. "We...we are so very sorry. My hunters, they will never invoke Fen'Harel's name in jest – ever again. We implore your...mercy."

Veda shot a glance to her right. The cuddly white wolf beside her had been replaced by a black wolf shaped like a great pillar of smoke, its six red eyes glowing hot as embers.

She glared stonily at Phanahel, Aleris and their followers. "Go. Now. Don't come back."

From the way they fled, Veda knew they wouldn't be reappearing in her dreams anytime soon. She turned back to Solas. The guise of the white wolf was back, as if nothing had happened.

"So. Anything you'd like to tell me?"

This was the point where Solas was supposed to explain everything away. This was his opening to issue a denial or tell her it was just a projection, a product of her fevered imaginings. Veda was willing to be convinced that she'd misunderstood what she'd seen or that it was simply a joke against the Dalish, another jab at her people's misguided superstitions. She was willing to entertain any answer that would offer an alternative explanation to what she'd just witnessed him become.

"No," Solas said. "Not particularly."

Veda stared at him, aghast. When she managed to summon her voice again, it came out strained, almost hysterical.

"Let me re-phrase that: would you please tell me that you're not Fen'Harel?"

"You wish me to reassure you. If I did, would you believe me?"

"That's not a denial, Solas."

"It wasn't intended to be."

Childhood memories crashed in upon Veda like an avalanche sliding down a mountain. There were the stories told in hushed tones around the campfire or spun out slowly on sweltering afternoons as the children sat crouched on the grass listening to old Matrias, Clan Lavellan's most avid storyteller. She recalled the statue of the Dread Wolf set outside their camp to scare away demons, its face contorted with wicked glee. She remembered how her father had once cursed a rude hunter: "Fen'Harel take you and all such fools." She heard Keeper Deshana's whispered blessing, the last words she'd said to her before she left for the Conclave in Haven: "Let not the Dread Wolf hear your footsteps, dal'en."

Could Solas be this monster? The Dread Wolf was the horror children imagined lurking in the shadows during sleepless nights. He was the malicious schemer who soured Dalish hopes and turned all good fortune into bones and dust. It might be that Fen'Harel's greatest trick of all was to wear a noble face and pretend to a loving heart, to have a brilliant mind, teeming with rare and marvelous ideas, that could coax loyalty into the most shocking betrayals.

"You...no. No."

Veda shook her head, her vision hazy with tears, willing Solas to lie to her again for old time's sake. She could learn to pretend. She could learn to forget. All he had to do was say "No. That's not me" and she'd go back to being the stupid, starry-eyed Dalish girl she'd been for so long and believe him.

Solas shifted into his elven form, the wolf's fur becoming the pelt draped over his shoulder, the wolf's jaw now merely a talisman strung around his neck. His expression was pained, his eyes downcast. In the moonlight, his features seemed smooth and precise, as if carved from marble.

"Yes. Ir abelas, vhenan."


	11. Second Dream: What the Thunder Said, 2

**The Second Dream: What the Thunder Said (Part 2)**

* * *

Veda's legs trembled and gave out beneath her, her knees digging into the soft earth, her hands pressed against the moss. She bowed her head, tears burning down her cheeks.

She had trained to be First of the Keeper since the day she'd turned seventeen. She'd spent a decade in service to her Keeper and Clan Lavellan, learning the rituals, the time-honoured migrations of the clans, what little they had left of their history. In all this, the first rule had always been: protect the People. Protect them from starvation, from the harshness of the elements, from the attacks of wild beasts, bandits, marauding demons or human soldiers, but most of all, protect them from Fen'Harel - for if the Dread Wolf caught them, he would crush their bones between his teeth and even their souls would not be safe, but be hunted forever in the Void.

Veda had vowed to do all these things and she had not even succeeded in protecting herself from the Wolf's corruption. She had given him her body. She had called him her heart. In her most romantic moments, she imagined their love enduring beyond death, their spirits mingling in the Beyond. At a word, she had allowed him to strip away her vallaslin, the truest mark of her Dalishness, because she trusted him.

"Why?" she demanded. "Was this fun for you? Leading me astray? Taking away everything I loved? Making me love you? Then taking that away too?"

Solas dropped to his knees before her. His hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her into a tight embrace before she could think to recoil.

"No. I never wished to hurt you. I'm so sorry. If it were only my life, I would gladly give it to spare you pain. Please believe that."

Veda drew back, taking in the solemnity of his face. He seemed genuine, but Fen'Harel was a consummate trickster. Who was to say this sincerity and heartbreak and the comforting warmth of his arms around her weren't all another sham?

"Why should I believe anything you say?" she whispered.

"I intended to confess everything to you. I've wanted to tell you so many things. I was afraid."

Veda gave an incredulous laugh. "The Dread Wolf is afraid? Of me?"

There were tears glimmering in the Dread Wolf's eyes. The old tales had told her many things, but they had never mentioned this deep and abiding sorrow.

"Afraid to lose you. Afraid to surrender to loving you and lose myself. My purpose. Everything I have been for a thousand years."

"What are you truly?"

"I'm an elf who has grown older and wearier, who has striven for wisdom, but continued to make the same fool mistakes," he said. "I am not a monster of legend, nor am I a god. People have painted me a trickster, a traitor. I prefer to consider myself a failed idealist."

"You're an elf, not a wolf spirit?"

Veda recalled times when she'd glimpsed the wolf in him. The fierce anger that had taken him to the edge of killing the foolish mages who'd bound and tormented Wisdom. The way he slunk along the outskirts of their camp after the destruction of Haven, an outsider looking in, pierced by a bone-deep aloneness that would not be assuaged by the comforts of the campfire nor consoled by Chantry platitudes. The hunger in his eyes when he claimed her, mouth ravenous for hers, his hands grasping her like the sweetest of prey.

He'd always emanated a strange intensity, his fierce intellect matched by the keenness of his eyes, passion simmering under the smooth surface of civility. In the truth, the wolf had attracted Veda as much as the soft-spoken scholar. She'd wanted philosophy and courtly love by day, a devouring hunt by night.

"You are an elven woman and a mage, are you not? You hold both of those worlds within you without contradiction," Solas said. "So it is with me. Spirit and body at once, in harmony. Before the Veil, there was no dichotomy between the realm of the physical and that of the imagination. One was what one dreamed."

The wistfulness in his voice transported her back to the hours they'd spent exploring the Fade together. She smiled. "And you dreamed of wolves?"

Solas made an effort to return the smile, but melancholy lingered behind his eyes. He reached up as if to stroke her cheek before realizing his mistake. His hand retreated, fingers barely grazing her skin.

"I've always had an affinity for such creatures. They have a habit of being misunderstood. As do I."

"Then you did not lock away the Creators and the Forgotten Ones?"

"No. I did lock them away," Solas said. "But it was not done for love of wickedness and I did not spend the next hundred years hugging myself and giggling with glee. Far from it."

For her part, Veda couldn't imagine him making a sound that might be described as giggle - never mind keeping it up for an entire century.

"The person who came up with that story obviously never met you. You're many things, Solas, but not a giggler."

He nodded. "The most popular of the Elvhen historians had much in common with Varric. They wished to tell interesting stories, ones the People would remember for centuries to come. They ascribed false motivations to actions they did not understand. Most preferred telling allegories about good and evil to a more balanced consideration of the facts. There was also a great deal of propaganda circulating throughout the civil wars. My reputation was one of the casualties."

Veda could boast some experience of this in her time as the so-called Herald of Andraste. Her actions and words were continually twisted to fit the image of a messianic hero endowed with holy power and a sacred mission. She was a Dalish elf, a heathen by Chantry standards, and yet everyone was willing to overlook her pointed ears and her forest ways because their myth-making required a different character altogether. In a few centuries, no one would remember the woman she'd been, oversensitive, reclusive, plagued by doubt. They would remember the legend they'd built in her place, the Herald that their faith required.

"So," she said. "Should I even bother to ask about the slow arrow?"

"Ah, that old tale," Solas sounded rueful, like a battle-hardened veteran recalling his first brawl. "I suspect the Slow Arrow is actually the story of a battle I fought during the slave rebellion, one in which we had to sacrifice several loyal villages for the sake of a newly acquired city. We drew the opposing army forward until they came within range of our artillery: a very powerful beam of magic, such as we encountered in the Chateau Corveau. You'll notice that the storytellers are never quite clear how the Dread Wolf, who presumably has paws, managed to shoot an arrow. And in truth, I have little skill for archery."

Veda took refuge in curiosity. It distracted her from a tangle of other feelings she could barely bring herself in acknowledge, much less sort out. There were so many tales of Fen'Harel, likely because he was the one character in Dalish myth who could reliably be counted upon to stir up trouble. What truth might be found in such stories? Did they have deeper, more insidious meanings or were they simply meant to entertain and divert her people from their current lot?

"What about the lovesick noble?" she asked. "I take it you've heard that one?"

"I have, indeed," Solas replied. "It's cold-blooded, but on the whole, rather witty. The tale of the lovesick noble is almost certainly based on three assassinations committed on my orders. A warlord and his two daughters, all accomplished sadists. There were few who willingly attended those funerals."

"Was there a story behind the tale of the old Keeper and his courser too?"

He shook his head. "No, that's just nonsense. I blame Keeper Gisharel for that absurdity. I have no problem with dogs, beyond finding them too servile for my liking."

"I'm surprised there are no legends about your hatred for tea," she said. "There's a true enmity."

Solas gave an appreciative chuckle."I suppose there wouldn't be much of a story in the Dread Wolf dumping out people's kettles. At least not one that would provoke anything but laughter."

He sighed, seeming to regret the levity. "Before you judge me too lightly, it's best you know this now: the Anchor and the orb that created it – they came from me."

Veda looked down at the Anchor embedded in her hand. That was why the magic seemed so familiar. It had been Solas' all along. No wonder he'd been so shattered at the sight of the broken orb. What it didn't explain was how a darkspawn with delusions of godhood had managed to acquire such a devastating weapon.

"How did Corypheus get your power?"

"I made a grave miscalculation. I allowed him to find the orb," Solas said. "When I awoke from uthenera, I was still very weak. I couldn't unlock the orb to do the tasks I had sworn to accomplish, so I made a desperate choice. I let a magister of Tevinter steal the orb so that he might unlock it, hoping that he'd kill himself in the attempt."

Veda's eyes widened. Her mind flashed back to the charred remains of the victims of the disaster at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. There'd been nearly three thousand people at the Conclave: negotiators, representatives, pilgrims, soldiers, servants and scribes. Few had escaped the blast.

"How could you? All those people at the Conclave..."

Solas bowed his head, his eyes downcast. "I know. The blame of that rests on my shoulders. Their blood will stain my hands forever. I truly didn't think he would do it there. I was desperate and I didn't think my plan would go so terribly awry. That is no excuse, however. It does not exonerate me."

"Corypheus was a darkspawn magister. He believed himself a god. You can't have thought he would do anything good with the orb."

"I believed it possible that a few might die with him in the course of the ritual to unlock the orb. His Venatori disciples and those who served them. Those losses seemed acceptable for the good that I might do with the orb's power. I never anticipated the tragedy at the Temple or what further horrors it might unleash."

"And that makes it alright? 'Acceptable' losses?"

"No, it doesn't," Solas said. "It simply shows that I am no 'god'. I have possessed enough power to wreck the world with my mistakes, but I lack the omniscience to foresee the correct course of action. When I have been called to bring change to the world, I have been forced to gamble and let the game play out. There have been consequences. Ones I may never repair or even manage to atone for. All I can tell you is that I am sorry for what I've inflicted upon you and upon this world. It was not done out of malice."

"Where are you now?" Veda demanded. "What are you doing? Are you playing dice with the world again?"

Solas frowned. "In the absence of a better god, playing dice is all I can do. To fix what is broken. So much has already been lost. If I stop now, all the suffering that has occurred up to this hour will be for nothing."

"This is madness. You must know that."

"It is as you advised me after the Temple of Mythal: one must take a breath, see where things went wrong and try again."

She felt queasy hearing him repeat those words, her words, spoken in breathtaking ignorance. It was one thing to strive to change the world as a mortal with flimsy mortal tools. It was another to do it with the strength and implacable will of a god.

"I didn't know what I was saying! I didn't even know who I was talking to!"

Solas flinched as if she'd slapped his face. "Do you truly believe that? That you never knew me?"

"What was the real you and what was a deception?" she said. "I can't even guess."

"_Ar lath ma, vhenan_. That is real. What we had was real. Before I left, that was the last thing I told you. I'd hoped that if my history ever came to light, you would remember that. I see now that words without deeds must be difficult to put one's faith in."

Veda nodded, her eyes blurry with tears."If you want me to believe, give me deeds."

"What would you ask of me?"

A tear trickled down her cheek. She swiped it away with the back of her hand.

"More than you'll ever agree to."

"Not more than I would wish to give," Solas said softly. "But, yes. There are considerations. Constraints."

"Then I'll tell you what I need. You have to give Cole back his memories of you. And I expect you to explain what happened to me. All of it. I want to know who I fell in love with. I want to know if that person even existed."

He remained quiet, letting her words wash over him.

"I see. You think Cole is better off remembering."

Veda couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Of course, he is! You were his best friend. He misses you and he doesn't even know who or what he's missing."

"Cole was a dear friend, but he is also a spirit of compassion. I wouldn't wish to see him corrupted by his connection to me."

His words made her wary. "What are you planning and why do you think it shouldn't involve compassion?"

"Cole is better off without me."

"Friendship isn't a unilateral decision, Solas. I thought you believed in giving people choices."

"It is different with spirits such as Cole. They feel compelled to help, even when they should not."

"Are spirits and people so different? As I recall, you didn't always think so. You shut me out of choices too. For my own good, you might say. I question that. You never gave me the chance to pick what I thought was good."

"I...yes, you are right. It's just – your requests will complicate matters."

"Were you thinking you could get off with a few kisses?"

His dry chuckle doubled as a confession of guilt."I entertained a fleeting hope. But, no. You expect better and it is what you deserve. I will do as you ask, so long as you promise me one thing."

"What?"

"You can't follow me. You can't stop me. You can't interfere."

Veda crossed her arms over her chest. "I won't commit myself to a promise I don't understand."

"That is...sensible."

"So?"

"I shouldn't accede to your wishes," he said. "But I will. I will restore Cole's memory. I'll show you the truth of what I am. However, I've made my desires clear to you. I do not want your intervention at present, regardless of how dire the situation may seem."

"Was anything about Solas real?"

Veda missed him the way one would yearn for the crystalline blue of the sky in a world drained of colour. How hollow it would feel to learn that she was in love with a ghost – not even a ghost, because at least the spirits of the dead had been alive once. The man she'd known as "Solas" might be nothing more than an illusion.

The man she knew as 'Solas' cupped her chin in his hand, gently turning her face so that her eyes met his. When she looked at him, she sensed such warmth, such sincere affection. Even if he was a traitor, the doom of Arlathan and the downfall of her people, even if he was the greatest disaster to ever have befallen Thedas, she could not doubt he loved her. It was written in every line of his face.

"Yes, Solas is real," he said. "Solas is me. My better self. The only one I've ever wished for you to see. If that part of me wasn't real, there would be nothing worth keeping."

"Is your true name Fen'Harel? Or something else?"

"Something else." He offered up a sorrowful smile, as if to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the situation. "I like Solas best. If I could be known by any name, it would be that one. If you wish, I will show you more of what I was when next we dream together."

"I do wish," Veda said. "I could get used to this much honesty."

"I'm not certain if you're still in shock, but you have shown me far more generosity than I deserve. If it gives you any comfort, a day will come when I will face judgment for my errors. I will be punished for all the suffering I've wrought."

She wondered why he'd believe she wanted to see him suffer. She had little taste for vengeance, especially against someone who already seemed so bereft of hope.

"That gives me no comfort. You are my heart - even if my heart is broken. Any punishment against you would be mine as well."

"No." Solas' voice was firm, as if he'd decided this long ago. "That cannot happen. I will not allow it. If we meet, it must be only in dreams. You must not involve yourself."

He glanced up at the treetops. Faint shafts of sunlight had begun to seep in through the leaves. "The dawn is upon us. Soon, you will awaken. I'll return when next you sleep. If you will allow it."

Solas stood, lifting Veda's hand as if to kiss it. At the last second, he seemed to reconsider this liberty, simply allowing it to brush across his cheek. "You are the last love I will know in this life."

Ominous words. They made her ache to hold him, although there was nothing she would be able to say or do to put him or his world back together. "Solas..."

She reached for his hand and pressed it to her lips. He gazed down at her, his mask of stoicism slipping.

Her voice quavered. "I cannot presume to speak for anyone else, living or dead. And I doubt it will change the burden of guilt you carry...but if it makes any difference, for my own part, I do forgive you."

At that, the mask crumbled entirely. Solas closed his eyes, his body shuddering with suppressed emotion. When at last he spoke, his voice was a rasp. "Ma serannas."

He lingered with her a little longer, eyes shut, her small hand gripped between his two larger ones, before he retreated, walking the forest path until it dissolved into the ether of the Fade.

* * *

Veda's eyes fluttered open. She was in her bed and it was morning. Birds chirped outside her window with a cheerfulness so dissonant it made her head ache. She sat up and hugged her chest, all the pain and yearning of the dream flooding in upon her. It took a long time before she was ready to leave the sanctuary of her room and face the day.


	12. The High Priestess

**The High Priestess**: _A woman of great strength sits between two pillars, crowned by her intuition and the phases of the moon. She is the threshold between two worlds, the material and the divine. The sea laps at her feet and is tangled in the folds of her robe. Behind her, a curtain conceals a portal. Only she can see what lies beyond. _

* * *

Fen'Harel awoke on the damp earth of the Crossroads – or was it Solas who opened his eyes, stretched his legs and gazed skyward, unbelieving? After seeing Veda, he always felt uncertain, less connected to his mission. Fen'Harel was cautious of such encounters, wary of being tamed to her hand. Solas desired nothing else. He wanted her to take hold of him and never let go.

His chest ached with longing. His throat was raw, as if someone had scrubbed it with sandpaper. He had a crick in his back from sleeping curled up on the hard ground. Yet, despite all this, he felt buoyant, lighter than air. She had seen his shame and she hadn't cringed away. He swore he could still feel the imprint of her lips on his hand, an anchor holding him fast.

Fen'Harel had to keep reminding himself that they weren't together. Veda Lavellan wasn't his. He couldn't be hers, however much he might wish it were different. She had a spirit of surpassing loveliness – it was doubtful he'd see her like again, not if he lived another eight thousand years. Fortunately, he didn't think he had another eight millennia left in him. With the risks he intended to take, he might not last another eight years. The knowledge didn't cost him much sorrow. He had endured too long, too alone. Veda had been a brief island of respite in a vast and empty sea and deprived of that last solace, it would be a relief to sink underwater, to see his duty to an end and lose himself in the perfect sleep of oblivion.

There were so many things he wanted to say to her. As he walked, he found himself talking to Veda in his head, plotting out the stories he would tell her and imagining how she might react to each new discovery. How she would have delighted in Arlathan's magic, the countless spells mingling together, speaking to one another across the centuries. During their remaining time, he would share what little he could with her.

In another world, they might have woven enchantments together over millennia and engaged in conversations that coursed through the years like the ceaseless flow of a river. They would have drifted into uthenera entwined in one another's arms, exploring the realm of dreams and the realm of waking as mated souls. Solas grieved for what might have been, for what should have been, in another world. In this world, Fen'Harel reigned, and duty would triumph over love.

* * *

Team meetings in the War Room were never quiet and seldom peaceful, but rarely did they come with such a simmering undercurrent of tension. Veda had announced that she planned to go through the Eluvian and search for Solas in the Crossroads and all at once, the room had fallen deathly silent.

Her advisors looked at one another, hesitant to directly contravene her wishes, each contemplating the tasks that would be left undone in her absence. Blackwall stared intently at the ground. Iron Bull gazed out the window as if contemplating what he was going to eat for lunch. Sera tilted onto the back legs of her chair and muttered something under her breath, probably a dirty limerick.

The redoubtable Madame de Fer drummed her nails on the war table, scrutinizing markers on the map of Orlais with narrowed eyes. She leaned forward, snaking a hand across the Frostback Mountains and flicked a marker over with her index finger. When Vivienne was certain everyone's attention was pinned on her, she stood back and smiled, smoothing her palms over the crushed velvet of her dark red robe.

Ever since the Chantry elected Cassandra to the Sunburst Throne, Veda had observed that Vivienne's ensembles had become increasingly imperious. Gold satin vied with crimson silk, seed pearls and ermine-trimmed sleeves, all the trappings one would associate with a Divine. Veda found the ploy for attention irksome and in remarkably bad taste for a woman who prided herself on an impeccable sense of decorum. Fortunately, Cassandra didn't appear to have noticed Vivienne's attempt to upstage her. Seeker Pentagast devoted as much time to considerations of Orlesian fashions as she did to court etiquette, the intricacies of Nevarran politics or the joys of owning a pet nug – which is to say, none at all.

"Has it occurred to anyone else that this business with the Eluvians is an appallingly bad plan?" Vivienne said. "The Inquisitor has just succeeded in bending the Chantry to her will. She should remain at Skyhold to consolidate her gains, not be chasing off through a looking-glass in search of her elven apostate paramour. Not only is it impractical, it's undignified."

"You'll excuse me, Inquisitor, but I have to agree." Cullen offered Veda an apologetic look. "Taking an expedition into the Eluvian network is a dangerous undertaking. What if you lose your way?"

"I'd map every step of my path," Veda said. "Besides, Cole has regained his memories. With his abilities, he'll be able to help us track Solas."

"I can help," Cole chimed in. "I want to."

"Delightful. You're going to let your pet demon guide the way. This is certain to be a wondrous success." Vivienne turned to Veda, barely bothering to conceal the condescension in her tone. "Darling, you must see that it's an impossible situation. Even if we knew Solas was hiding in an Eluvian – and there's little enough of evidence of that – it seems pure folly to pursue a man who doesn't want to be found. Far be it from me to go prying into affairs of heart -"

"Hah! To do that, you'd need to have a heart," Dorian cut in.

Veda could have kissed him for that, but managed to restrain herself. She made a mental note to lavish him with wine and compliments later, which he'd much prefer anyway.

Vivienne shot Dorian a look that would have frozen beer. "Aren't you just precious? Best not make any further sallies at wit today, my dear. I'd hate to see you strain a muscle."

Veda stepped between them before Dorian could muster up an equally scathing retort.

"Vivienne," she said, keeping her tone as sweet as spun sugar on a Orlesian cake. "I'm certain you mean well – after all, I know you'd only oppose my plans out of a legitimate concern for the Inquisition and not out of any petty vindictiveness – but I called this meeting to inform you all of my decision, not to debate its merits."

Veda paused, giving her words a moment to sink in. Her eyes leveled with Vivienne's, neither issuing a challenge nor backing away from the confrontation that was certain to ensue. They were both women accustomed to getting their way. Neither of them flinched.

"The Inquisition has restored order in Thedas," Veda continued. "There's nothing keeping me from investigating the disappearance of a valued ally whom, yes, I happen to care about deeply. I want to make sure that Solas isn't in danger. In light of the circumstances of his departure from us, I think my concern is more than justified."

"Also, she wants more of that Elven Glory!" Sera made a circle with her fist and poked two fingers in and out, in and out, in a gentle fucking motion. In her enthusiasm, she nearly upended her chair, sending Blackwall into gales of laughter.

"Hey, I don't blame her. Everybody needs to get laid once in a while," Iron Bull said. "All I can say is, Solas has surprised me. He's a cagey one, but he must be doing something good with that staff of his."

Veda rolled her eyes. When she'd been First of Clan Lavellan, she'd been so serious-minded and conscious of her own dignity. Being the butt of bawdy jokes would once have caused her deep and lasting embarrassment. Becoming Inquisitor had cured her of that. She'd come to see that her leadership could withstand a few jests, and that a willingness to laugh at herself could win loyalty and improve morale. Nowadays, she wouldn't have been fazed if Sera had dropped her drawers and farted the Fereldan national anthem – which, at times, was a distinct possibility.

"I'm confused," she said. "How did you people get into the Inquisition again? Blood magic?"

Sera stuck her tongue out. "Har, har, Quizzy-face. We wouldn't be making fun of you if you weren't all hung up on Droopy Ears and his elfy pish. Don't even pretend it isn't about smooshing your elfy bits together, 'cause we know it is. And it's stupid. For once, Vivi-shit has a point. I hate that."

Vivienne heaved a martyred sigh. "Doubtless, Sera is the undisputed expert in all things idiotic. Let's trust her professional opinion, shall we?"

Cassandra frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. "For my part, I think the Inquisitor is right. If Solas is in danger, he deserves our intervention."

"Jokes aside, I agree," Blackwall said. "If the Inquisitor hadn't gone after me...well, you know what would have become of me. If there's a chance that Solas may be in similar situation, I say we go fetch him back."

Veda thought that was remarkably generous of him, considering Solas hadn't been exactly forgiving when they'd discovered the truth behind Blackwall's sudden disappearance. Indeed, his initial response to Blackwall's hidden past had been breathtakingly hypocritical, considering he'd been concealing secrets of his own.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm glad some of you aren't willing to give up on him just yet. Dorian, Cole and Abelas have agreed to accompany me on the mission. While I'm gone, Josephine will be in charge of day-to-day operations at Skyhold -" she glanced at Josephine, who returned her gaze with a faint smile, "- Cullen will retain command of our forces -" Cullen answered with a nod, " - and Leiliana will deal with any new matters that arise in our field operations." Leiliana clasped her hands together behind her back, her expression keen and eager.

"I expect that all of you who choose to remain here will support them in their work," Veda continued. "If, for some reason, I'm away for an unreasonable period of time, there are continuity plans in place. I don't anticipate that it will come to that, but we have created safeguards. Facing the unknown is part of what I do as Inquisitor. If I face the unknown with confidence it's because we have good people here at Skyhold and we've planned for contingencies, however unlikely."

After the meeting was concluded, Cassandra strode to Veda's side. "It's good you're going after Solas. I'd come with you if I didn't have to be in Val Royaux for the coronation." She gave a contemptuous snort. "Hours of ceremony. You can guess how much I'm looking forward to that."

"I don't suppose you can read the latest issue of _Swords and Shields_ while they're praying over you?" Veda teased. "Maybe sneak it in under The Chant of Light?"

Cass wrinkled her nose, even as the hint of a smile crept across her lips. "That is completely heretical. And much less funny than you think. Perhaps it's for the best that you're traveling through the Eluvians and won't be able to attend."

Veda smirked. In Dorian's company, she sometimes felt like the uptight one, less sparkling and witty, but when paired with Cassandra, she was definitely the joker. It was strangely gratifying to draw out the sly and unexpected sense of humour buried under the Seeker's blunt efficiency.

"I don't know about that. I might be back sooner than you think. If so, I'll be there and making faces at you from the front row. Wild halla couldn't keep me away."

Cass chuckled. "Andraste save us all."

* * *

Fen'Harel approached the Eluvian that would take him to Vir'hellathen. It looked no different than the other mirrors in the Crossroads except for the statue that rested beside it, a broken stone halla covered in a mass of red ivy.

He placed his hand on the mirror. The murky surface reflected him in silhouette, devoid of features except for elongated fingers like claws and pale eyes that still emitted a faint, eerie glow of Mythal's power.

Leaning forward, he whispered the password as if he were confiding the deepest of secrets. "Fen'Harel enansal".

The glass became a shimmering curtain of light, one that he slipped through with ease.

* * *

"Confound it!"

Dorian pounded a fist into the wall beside Skyhold's Eluvian, not hard enough to hurt his manicured fingers, but with enough show to thoroughly convey his frustration. He'd re-purposed a shard from Solasan into a sort of magical skeleton key and spent the past hour trying to use it and an assortment of Tevinter spells to open the Eluvian.

"You should be nicer to the wall," Cole said. "It keeps the roof from falling in."

Dorian sighed, catching his breath. "My sympathy for inanimate objects is rather limited at the moment, I'm afraid. But...point taken."

"Shall I take another turn?" Veda asked.

"By all means," Dorian said. "Perhaps we ought to try wiggling our fingers and shouting 'Open Sesame'."

"What about 'Please open, mirror?'" Cole suggested.

Veda shrugged. "Those ideas are as good as anything else we've tried."

Dorian lounged out on a nearby platform as if he were sunbathing in the garden. "You know, I'm usually very fond of mirrors. But these elven contraptions are astoundingly uncooperative. They don't even have the courtesy to reflect back my stunning good looks."

"I guess the ancient elves didn't feel the need to check their hair every five minutes."

"Probably because none of them had any! Have you seen them under those hoods? They're all bald as newborn babes."

"I think it's the uthenera," Veda said. "You'd shave your head too if you were going to sleep for a few centuries."

Dorian shuddered – whether at notion of losing his precious moustache or at the thought of centuries' worth of greasy hair, it was hard to tell.

"Perish the thought. If that's the way to immortality, I'll stick with being a transient delight." He paused, the spark of an idea dancing behind his eyes. "That dour fellow, the one who's supposed to accompany us..."

"Abelas?"

"That's the name. Have you noticed that he's markedly...attractive?"

Veda turned, distracted from her spell. "Don't you have your hands full with Bull?"

"Haha, more than my hands! But I was curious about your opinion of the fellow. I mean, you've seen those thigh muscles, I gather? I'd rather like to bite them myself, but of course, I'm -"

The door swung open and Abelas marched in, cutting Dorian off in mid-fantasy. Luckily, Dorian's swarthy complexion wasn't prone to blushing.

"Why, hello there, Abelas," he said, putting on an air of breezy nonchalance. "Where's the fire?"

Abelas ignored him, turning his impatient gaze on Veda. "Why do you delay our mission? Every moment we waste, Pride gets further away."

Veda hadn't spoken with Abelas since her dream with Solas, but she had more than a few things to say. She had a notion that the high priest of Mythal had been keeping the Dread Wolf's identity secret since their first encounter in the Temple.

"Pride?" she said. "Or _Fen'Harel_?"

Abelas answered her with the faintest of smiles – no trace of an apology. "You've discovered his true nature. What brought you to that realization?"

"Solas told me. In a dream. Mind you, it would have been helpful if you'd volunteered the information earlier."

"I should risk the wrath of the Dread Wolf for a stranger to our ways? I believed that if he saw fit for you to know the truth, he would make it clear in time. My assumption was correct."

"You deceived me, just as he did. If you'd said something..."

Veda stopped herself before she revealed too much. She was allowing her regret to overpower her reason. Even if she'd known who Solas truly was, it might not have stopped him from disappearing, out of shame or fear or worry that she would be hurt. She vented her anger against Abelas because he was a convenient substitute for Solas.

"He would have stayed?" Abelas frowned at her. "What passed between you and Fen'Harel has nothing to do with me. I am not to blame for your lover's lies."

"Maybe not," she said, somewhat chastened. "But in the future, if you know something, I expect you to share it upfront. I don't need any more Elvhen mysteries."

"Fen'Harel? Elvhen mysteries?" Dorian glanced at Cole. "Do you have the slightest notion what they're talking about?"

"At the edge of the forest, he lurks, full of dread," Cole muttered. "At the campfire, they tell the children lies, so they despise him. He walks the path alone, crying to the moon for his lost heart."

"Ah, yes. That explains everything." Dorian turned to Veda. "Would someone care to augment that utterly coherent explanation?"

Veda chose to stick to the textbook definition – her own feelings in the matter were much too complicated to make sense of. "According the Dalish legends, Fen'Harel is the elven trickster god. He's supposed to have locked away all the other gods in our pantheon out of spite. But, like many old tales, the truth of my people's stories is debatable."

"And you had a dream in which Solas told you he was this god?" Dorian inquired. "Are you certain this wasn't just too much wine or a bad ham sandwich?"

"It was a lucid dream. Solas met me in the Fade, as we've met before." Veda felt her cheeks flush with the memory of that 'before', all the pleasures they'd shared in the peculiar beauty of the Fade. The sexual possibilities of Fade-walking would certainly not be lost on a hedonist like Dorian. "He wouldn't tell me where he was or what he was doing, but he did explain the truth of his identity. Of course, I could've known much sooner if Abelas here had said something at the Temple of Mythal."

Dorian twisted one end of his moustache around his finger, holding it tightly, then letting it unfurl back into place. "So let me get this straight... I really am trying, you know. You honestly believe Solas is a god? Who can shapeshift into a monstrous wolf and defeat other deities with his cunning?"

"Well, sort of. He may be not a real god – just a being powerful enough to have been worshiped as one." Veda sighed. "I know it sounds far-fetched. Just try to trust in my sanity, will you?"

"I'll do my best," Dorian said. "Although, if Solas is so powerful, one naturally must wonder why he didn't grow himself any hair? Silly question, I know. In any case, this Fen'Harel business must have had interesting implications for your sex life."

Veda was glad he'd let her off with just a few jokes. Few of the others would have been as understanding about something so deeply weird. Fortunately, Dorian was accustomed to deeply weird, having spent most of his life in Tevinter, where no party was complete without a murder or two and bleeding one's slaves was a commonplace as juicing oranges at breakfast.

"This information can't leave this room, Dorian. You saw how some of the others reacted to my leaving Skyhold to search for Solas. Can you imagine how much less enthusiastic they'd be if they found out he was powerful enough for people to believe him a god? You mustn't tell them."

"Really? Not even Vivienne? Come now, the look on her face would be priceless. She thinks she did well seducing the leader of the Council of Heralds. Meanwhile, you chose the one apostate hobo in Thedas who's secretly wielding phenomenal cosmic power." Dorian sighed despairingly. "Very well. No blabbing. For friendship. I hope you realize the sacrifice I'm making."

Abelas looked none too impressed by this exchange. "Very well. We understand whom we are dealing with. All the more reason to act quickly. Whatever Fen'Harel' intends, it will transform this world, for good or for ill."

"We'd be on our way if I knew how to open Morrigan's Eluvian," Veda said. "Unfortunately, my mark doesn't seem to have much effect on it."

At this admission, Abelas seized her hand, turning it palm upward to examine the mark. Veda glared at him, annoyed that, once again, she was to be treated like an enchanted artifact anyone might poke and prod at. Ancient elves seemed particularly prone to forgetting their manners when there was magic at stake.

She shot a glance at Dorian to see how he was taking this. He arched an eyebrow back at her, smiling, as if to say, _It certainly could be worse. Relax and contemplate the magnificence of those thighs_.

Veda scowled back at him, hoping her friend would get the message: she was not looking to rebound from Solas with another of the ancient Elvhen – or anyone, for that matter, however handsome. It was too soon, and while it might seem naive, she still hoped Solas wasn't lost to her forever.

Abelas dropped her hand just as impulsively as he'd taken it and strode over to the Eluvian, peering into its warped glass. "The mark on your hand is powerful indeed, but it is not the key to this portal. This Eluvian is not of the Elvhen. It was manufactured by the human witch, I take it?"

"Yes, Morrigan made it," Veda said.

Abelas sniffed as if she'd just handed him a rotten mackerel. "That explains its...inferior quality. No doubt, the witch created a separate password for the mirror."

Veda shook her head. "I saw her open it. She didn't speak to the Eluvian. I didn't even see her lips move. She just passed her hand over it."

"A glyph then," Dorian said. "But which one? There are thousands just in the known lore..."

Veda turned to Cole. "What do you think? Did you get a read on Morrigan while she was in Skyhold?"

"A read?" Cole looked bewildered. "She's a lady. Not a book."

Veda smiled. Sometimes she forgot that Cole took things so literally. "Yes, you're right. I mean, did you sense anything in her thoughts?"

"Knowledge is power and she wanted the power to keep Mother away. Mother would eat her heart away and break Kieran like the golden mirror and all her toys."

"I met Morrigan's mother," Veda murmured. "She was a very strange old woman. And apparently, possessed by the soul of Mythal."

Abelas' eyes widened. Some small, vengeful part of Veda's personality found it immensely satisfying to have withheld information from him for once.

"The human witch? A daughter of Mythal?" He frowned. "I am...relieved that our dispute did not come to violence. Mythal's ways are mysterious and it may be that in opposing the human's desire for the Well, I would have violated my oath of service."

Dorian sighed. "Mythal! Why not? After all, the bald apostate hobo is an elven god. Why shouldn't Morrigan's batty mother be one too? It may be we're all incarnations of elven deities and simply don't know it. All of us except Sera. She's actually the Maker."

Cole laughed. "Noooo. Sera doesn't make things. She _breaks_ things."

Veda noticed Abelas raising his hand towards the Eluvian. She stepped towards him.

"What are you doing?"

His hand traced a glyph over the surface of the glass. "The sign of Mythal."

The Eluvian came alive, glimmering with an ethereal blue light that played over Abelas' stoic face. The portal was open. The Crossroads were just a step away.

"Nicely done," Veda said. "So, are you prepared to hunt the Dread Wolf?"

"It is my appointed path," Abelas said. "It will not be denied."

Dorian grinned at the Eluvian, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. "How I adore magic. Ah, if only the listless old fogeys in the Magisterium could see me now: Dorian Pavus, Fade-walker, traveller of the Eluvians! They'd shrivel up and die of envy. This is going to be delightful, I just know it."


	13. The Hanged Man

**The Hanged Man:**_ The holy fool is bound by the ankles, suspended from a wooden cross between the material world and the realms of spirit. Head to the ground, feet to the sky, his perspective is shaken, vulnerabilities revealed. As he awaits his fate, there is a moment to consider his predicament. How did he come to this? Does he linger on the edge of death or transcendence?_

* * *

Veda trudged through the mists of the Crossroads, supplies heavy on her back. Cole wandered ahead of her, with Abelas striding just a pace behind him.

Dorian brought up the tail of the group, his mouth moving faster than his legs. Since they'd crossed through the Eluvian into this in-between place, her friend had kept up a running commentary on his impressions of everything, from the quality of the statues (sub-par, compared to the Archon's Gardens in Bythinia) to the state of his feet (worsening by the moment, thanks to the attractive curse of high arches).

The Crossroads had a wistful beauty to it, Veda thought. It had the gentle quality of early morning light washing over a stark winter landscape.

"I've come to a decision," Dorian declared, hiking his backpack up onto his shoulders. "I detest this place. It's all so...colourless. Like trekking through a bowl of oatmeal."

Veda laughed. "Is there any place you do like? Everywhere we go, you complain about it." She imitated Dorian's high-and-mighty Tevinter accent. " 'It's too hot. The rain keeps mussing my hair. Why is this bog so wet? This forest is insufferably _green_ – it's hurting my eyes'."

"I happen to like many places," Dorian replied. "I'm fond of Minrathous in the spring. I have a great affection for well-appointed interiors. I'm not even opposed to Skyhold, provided there's a warm wind blowing in from the northeast. But this place is vile – like waking up in an especially wretched corner of the Exalted Plains with a hangover and chronic melancholia."

"No doubt you are uncomfortable here," Abelas said. "This place wasn't made for your kind."

"My kind? Villainous Tevinters, you mean?"

"No. I mean human barbarians. Of all varieties."

Dorian paused, as if trying to swallow the fact that an elf had just called Tevinter, the zenith of all civilized human empires, barbaric. "That's refreshing, I suppose," he concluded at last. "You despise us all equally. I can live with that."

"Which way now?" Veda asked Cole. He'd been using glimpses of Solas' thoughts to lead them, an uncertain strategy. They weren't walking in circles yet, but it was definitely a possibility.

Cole squinted into the fog, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Vines like veins, bleeding. Broken horns. He is beyond and inside himself. I lose him there."

"You're just tired," she said, patting his shoulder. "We've been walking for hours now. We should set up camp."

They set down their packs and laid out bedrolls in a grove of barren trees, a place that Abelas deemed "defensible".

Making a traditional campfire was out of the question; the trees were made of bone, not wood and so there was little to burn. Instead, Veda and Dorian took turns conjuring up sparks in their hands, rolling and shaping them into glowing orbs of fire.

"That's pretty," Cole said. "Like a orange blossoms. If Varric were here, he'd tell us a story."

Veda felt a pang of sadness. Varric was back in Kirkwall now, among his old friends. Aside from the dwarf's old grudge with Cassandra, he'd been a stabilizing influence in the Inquisition, always ready with a joke or a quip when arguments became too heated, always willing to befriend those who had trouble fitting in.

"We can tell stories," she said.

Dorian arched an eyebrow. "Some of my stories are too good to tell. But, surely, I can think of at least a few that are appropriate for the hearing of spirits and Inquisitors."

Abelas sat with his back turned to them, whittling a piece of soapstone with a dagger. At the mention of stories, he muttered something under his breath and continued working. Veda suspected he was already annoyed that she'd called the journey to a halt for the evening. If he'd had his way, Abelas would likely have just kept walking until he found Solas or collapsed of exhaustion.

Let him stew, she thought. He might consider them weak mortals, but she wasn't going to run her people ragged on a forced march just to impress him. Cole was already under enough strain trying to access Solas' thoughts. An endless hike through the Crossroads wouldn't have improved his mental state. Besides, there was Dorian and his aching feet to consider. Mr. Hothouse Orchid needed sunlight and watering or he would wilt.

"Shall I tell you about the time I visited the city of Wycome?" Veda asked.

Cole nodded his assent.

Dorian grinned. "Go on. Out with it."

Veda had been a young girl at the time, perhaps seven or eight, ignorant of magic or the ways of humans. She'd wandered away from her father, who was one of the craftsmen appointed to take Dalish wares to the city merchants and negotiate fair prices. While her father remained outside the city gates, she'd passed through them in a daze, curious at this strange and wonderful new place.

"I couldn't believe how wide the streets were, how tall the buildings. Everyone seemed so rich and well-fed. There were whole crates of food just sitting out in the open for anyone to take. I saw a bushel of apples on a table and they looked so good that I reached in, took one and started to munch on it."

"Without paying for the privilege," Dorian said. "You were a bold one."

"At the time, I had no idea people had to pay for them. In my clan, everything left in the open was shared. If you didn't want someone to take something, you put it away or locked it up. So when I saw all that food lying about, it seemed natural to have my share. Of course, the fruit vendor and the city guardsman didn't agree."

"You were scared," Cole said. "But not of the city guard. Of your father."

His words made the memory too real. Veda had been planning to make a joke of it: the thieving Inquisitor about to jailed for an apple when suddenly, a cold spell had shot from her fingertips and froze the entire apple stand. She recalled how the vendor screamed and the guardsman stepped back in surprise, giving her an opening. She'd run, run for her life. Even now, she could feel the blood pumping in her head, the rasp of her breathing, the sore muscles in her legs as she darted back through the city gates, sprinting past her father and the merchants. She'd hid herself deep in the underbrush and hadn't ventured out until dusk.

"It was the first time my magic ever manifested itself," she told them. "Afterwards, my father found out and you can imagine how angry he was."

He'd shouted at her for a solid hour, then ignored her for weeks, despite her brother's urging.

"I think he would have fed me to a great bear, if Keeper Deshana hadn't stopped him. Eventually, he forgave me. Probably when I wound up being chosen as First of the Keeper. Ten years later. Mind you, that was still the best-tasting apple I ever had."

It was supposed to be a funny story, but no one was laughing.

"That's dreadful," Dorian said. "I thought the Dalish were more enlightened about magic."

"Not all Dalish, but my clan was very forgiving," Veda said. "They moved on from Wycome and we didn't venture near it for many years. Even when we did, Keeper Deshana was always careful to ensure I never came to close to the city. I suspect it's one of the reasons she tasked me with going to Haven for the Conclave. She didn't want to risk having me camped near the spot where I was almost captured as an apostate."

"Your father didn't hate you," Cole said. "He was worried. He was afraid. He let Keeper Deshana take care of you because he thought she'd do a better job."

"That's...very kind of you, Cole," Veda said. "I really didn't intend this story to turn into such a pity party. It was supposed to make you laugh."

"I imagine there was a little comedy in your escapade. All those frozen apples. Why, the city of Wycome should have hired you on for food preservation." Dorian said. "Now would you be interested to hear the story of how I first came by my magic?"

Veda nodded, happy to have the discussion diverted from her all-too-revealing confession. They pitied her now. She didn't want to be pitied. She'd earned herself enough pity when Solas had dumped her and abandoned the Inquisition.

"Now, in Tevinter," Dorian began, "the first spell of a young Altus is as eagerly awaited as his first word – indeed, much more so, because the ability to talk is of relatively little importance compared to astounding magical abilities. Mother and Father only ever agreed on two things: firstly, that one should never wear a cowl with open-toed shoes; and secondly, that being the scion of House Pavus, little Dorian should acquire his magical abilities before any of the other infant mages. Any other result would be entirely unacceptable and a sign that we should all give up and surrender ourselves to be paraded about on leashes by the Qunari."

"That doesn't sound kinky at all," Veda teased. "Perhaps a preference for tall, grey and handsome runs in the family?"

He chuckled. "I hope not. I like to think I come by my rebellion honestly. Ah, the absurd lengths they went to in hope of making me a magical prodigy. They plied me with candies, bribing me to repeat incantations. My first tutor, a doddering old fellow named Scrivius, would read to me - not bedtime stories or any such nonsense - but spells and rituals from the Librum Arcanus. I distinctly remember having a colouring book composed entirely of glyphs."

"That sounds like a lot of pressure for a child," replied Veda.

"I was only four or five, so I doubt I truly noticed at the time. I was much more interested in procuring baked goods from the kitchens and terrorizing Leonitus, our family's long-suffering pure-bred feline, than anything Mother and Father were doing."

He grinned at the memory. "Anyway, at a certain point, Mother decided, enough was enough. She'd grown impatient with the efforts of the slaves to bring forth my innate magical gifts and so she opted to take matters into her own very capable, immaculately manicured hands. She sat me down at a desk and began quizzing me with a set of magical flashcards she'd created. I told her I was hungry (I was always hungry in those days – I was going through a bit of chubby phase) and she ignored me. I told her I was thirsty, and again, she thought nothing of it. Finally, I announced, 'But Mater, I have to pee!' Now of course, she didn't like that one bit. A true Altus prioritizes magic over the call of nature. She told me that I was going to have to hold it in until I did something magical. Well, can you imagine what I did?"

"I hope you peed all over her best robes," Veda said.

"Not anything so uncivilized, I promise. Mother started in on the next question and I gave her such a shock of electricity that it frizzled her hair. The slave who was responsible for her grooming was positively in tears over it, but Mother was in her glory. Able to channel lightning at such a young age! Her hair might have stood on end for the rest of the social season, but she wore it like a badge of honour in every drawing room in Minrathous."

"She thinks about you," Cole said. "Worried, wondering in the wreckage, wracked by the sickness in her head. Her legacy is gone. The goblet is empty. Refill it. You saw your father. You forgave him, but you will not reply to her letters."

"Her letters are a guilt-trip I don't wish to embark upon." Dorian's face was tense, his moustache giving a faint quiver. His voice contained a rough edge beneath its debonair, devil-may-care humour. "I don't care how well Livia was looking at the Archon's Ball. I'll be damned if I care about her nervous condition or whether the healers are taking her seriously after what she tried to do to me. At least Father had enough shame in him to be sorry. She's only sorry she was caught."

He took in a deep breath, glancing around the circle as if waiting for someone to provide a punchline, a fitting conclusion. When no one supplied it, he offered his own. "Well, that story wasn't as funny as anticipated either."

"It seems no one has a good story about discovering their magic," Veda said. "It's worse than talking about losing one's virginity."

"Oh, I have a good story about that," Dorian said. "It happened in the Minrathous public baths. Sexy, if somewhat unhygienic. An older man. He was gorgeous. A bit dim, really, but a marvelous physical specimen."

He glanced at Cole. "I hope this isn't stealing away your innocence?"

"I already know that story. He was married. You saw the imprint of the ring on his finger. But it made you remember there were others like you. At first, it made you feel less alone. After, you felt more lonely, but you didn't regret it."

Dorian wrinkled his nose. "It's quite...uncanny how you do that. Do you think very poorly of people, knowing all their secrets?"

Cole shook his head, giving him a befuddled smile. "No. Why would I? Almost everyone is the same. They are hurting. They try to make themselves better. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it causes other hurts. I like to help."

"Mine was at an Arlathvhen," Veda whispered.

"Positively scandalous," Dorian said. "Now tell me: what in the Maker's name is an Arlathvhen? And how do I get one?"

She shook her head, wondering if he truly didn't know or if he was just feigning ignorance so that she'd have to explain and he'd have more opportunities to tease her.

"An Arlathvhen is an enormous gathering attended by almost all the Dalish clans of southern Thedas. It's tradition for the Firsts of each clan to set up camp together. Of course, we were all young and excited to see so many others of our kind, outside of the clans we were born into. Each night, we'd throw these parties, get ourselves roaring drunk on honeysuckle wine, and dance around the fire. Well, one night, I wound up dancing with this First from Clan Inashallin."

"Was he devastatingly handsome? Or just hung like a horse?"

Veda smiled, her cheeks hot with embarrassment. "I remember liking his vallaslin. He wasn't spectacularly handsome, but he had a quirky charm about him and he was so confident..."

Dorian smirked at her. "Was he bald as an egg? Did he seduce you with his encyclopedic knowledge of the Fade?"

She laughed, bumping up against her friend's shoulder. "He had hair a-plenty. Longer than mine. It kept getting my mouth in when we kissed."

"Hm. So you hadn't discovered your type yet."

"Very funny. You know, it may be that I don't have a type. I love whom I love. Not that I loved Aleris. Our encounters were...short-lived. Back then, I remember wondering what all the fuss was about with this sex business. It took me a couple more partners before I started to like it better than dancing."

"You poor dear," Dorian patted her head as if she were a sad Mabari puppy. Veda pretended to snarl at him, slapping his hand away.

"Don't interfere with me, human."

He laughed. "Were you planning to bite me? Those stories about wild Dalish elves are true! Now, I love doing the Remigold as much as the next fellow, but I'd never say it was even half as good as what one gets up to in the boudoir."

Abelas turned to look at them. "So much talk. Is it common for mortals to speak thus?"

"About sex, you mean?" Dorian asked. "Oh yes. Very common. If you think we're bad, you ought to go drinking with Bull and Sera."

"What you discuss is of no consequence to me," Abelas said. "My people attach no shame to sex. In my day, some would devote centuries only to indulging their physical desires. What I find curious is the ceaseless blather. Elvhen have the good sense to shut their mouths now and again."

Abelas seemed ready to return to his carving, when an arrow sailed over his head. It narrowly missed Cole's hat and plunked off the hard white 'bark' of a nearby tree.

Veda grabbed her staff, casting a barrier over the company, as Cole sprung to his feet, daggers at the ready.

"Who would be so astonishingly suicidal?" Dorian said. "Really, you'd think word would get around that we're the Inquisition. We consider dragon-slaying an amusing diversion. Defeating deranged templars and demented magisters is our specialty, yet people persist in believing they can kill us. I almost feel sorry for them. Almost."

"Fenedhis," Abelas grumbled. "Does the human ever quit?"

Veda shook her head.

Their astonishingly suicidal attackers shot several more arrows at them before Abelas spotted them dashing through the mists. He and Cole gave chase, while Veda and Dorian kept their barriers up, flinging spells from behind the cover of the trees.

"We yield! We yield!" a male voice shouted. He had a faint Orlesian accent.

Abelas brought back a pair of elves as captives, having confiscated their weapons and several bags containing what looked to be their few possessions. Judging from their lack of vallaslin and their impractical clothes, Veda thought they were likely to be city elves and members of Briala's spy network. She didn't recognize them from the Winter Palace, but that meant nothing.

"The suicidal fools," Abelas said dryly, by way of introduction.

He tossed their bows onto the orb of fire Dorian had created. The wood burned easily. It wasn't ironbark, the material Veda's father was so good at bending to his whims, what all the Dalish preferred for their weapons. The city elves improvised their arms out of lesser materials.

"You're the Inquisitor," the female elf said. "We didn't know. We're agents of the Ambassador. We wouldn't have attacked if we'd guessed it was you."

"What are you doing here?" Veda asked.

"Reconnaissance," the elven woman said.

"More like wandering around in the fog, waiting to get attacked," the male elf cut in. "Someone or something has been moving through our territory. We never catch sight of it, but I could feel it, watching."

"We thought you were it. Whatever 'it' is," the woman added.

The presence they were describing sounded an awful lot like Solas. It would be like him to conceal himself to avoid unnecessary conflict, yet Veda could imagine him following Briala's agents out of sheer curiosity, a desire to understand their motivations. She felt her hopes lift.

"What else do you remember about it?" she asked.

The man shrugged. "Just gave me the creeps. I had bad dreams for three nights running after my last patrol."

Veda's eyes narrowed. Yes, it sounded as if they'd met Solas, even if he hadn't been polite enough to stick around and get acquainted.

"Dreams? What sort of dreams?"

"Nightmares. There was this creepy old hag and she was talking about wolves. Then a wolf actually came. I could see its claws. And its teeth. The old lady just rotted up and died, right in front of me, and I woke up."

Veda experienced a sudden thrill of recognition. The identity of the wolf was obvious. The old woman might have been Mythal, but why would she be dead and rotten?

She glanced at Abelas. He seemed to be having thoughts similar to hers, and judging by the way he clenched his jaw, he wasn't taking this news very well.

"Sounds like you were drunk," the female elf said.

"I wasn't when I went to sleep," the elven man said. "But when I woke up – well, I did my damnedest to get that way."

As they talked, Abelas rummaged through their few possessions. He unscrewed the lid of a flask taken from the elven man and gave it a cursory sniff.

"Pah!" He grimaced, handing the flask off to Dorian.

Dorian frowned, bringing the flask up to his nostrils.

"Moonshine," he concluded. "Such a lovely and evocative word for such an unsavoury concoction. Under normal circumstances, I would abstain. But – what is the expression? When in Denerim, do as the dog-lords do."

He tilted the flask back and took a tentative sip. He looked about as happy to be quaffing the stuff as Solas would've been to drink tea.

"Not entirely dreadful. Care for a taste?" He offered the flask to Veda.

She caught one whiff of it and the full extent of Dorian's desperation became clear to her. Moonshine wasn't the word. This stuff was rot gut, through and through. She dumped out the flask. The liquid puddled onto the dirt.

"That was ungracious of you," Dorian said.

"I did it for the sake of your liver."

She handed the empty flask to the elven man. He did not seem entirely grateful for this service.

Dorian crossed his arms over his chest, his expression defiant."My liver is doing just fine. I wasn't aware that I had an elven mother. The one I left in Tevinter was quite enough for my liking."

"I'm your friend. That liquor isn't."

Abelas finished rooting through their captives' possessions, finding little to interest himself with.

"What manner of elves are these?" he demanded, his gaze locked on Veda. "They're as scrawny as you, but even more ignorant. Poor, as well, if one is to judge by these meager offerings." He gestured at what he'd looted from their prisoners: a comb, a half-eaten crust of bread, a ragged journal, a bruised apple, a rusty knife.

"They're city elves." Veda wasn't going to address his other observations, which were mostly accurate but insensitive all the same.

"And what sort of elf are you then?" The elven woman glared at Abelas. "Dalish? Half-savage, looking down your nose at everyone else?"

Abelas snorted. "I am not of the Dalish. I count myself lucky in that."

"I'm Dalish," Veda said. "Abelas...well, he's just kind of a jerk."

"A jerk?" Abelas retorted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you need to work on your manners."

"The Dalish aren't any better," the elven woman said. "So are you going to let us leave? Or do you plan to keep us around for the entertainment?"

"Tell me where you last sensed that strange presence and we'll give you back your possessions," Veda assured her. "We'll let you leave, but you're to tell Briala that she's to keep a better eye on her people. The Inquisition is here and we won't stand for further acts of aggression."

* * *

Fen'Harel sat cross-legged in the center of Vir'Hellathen, encircled by seven mirrors. His reflection played across each Eluvian: distorted shadows that took on monstrous proportions, reminders of what he'd become in the minds of the People.

He drew another glyph on the ground to augment the wards that he'd already laid down. Mythal's borrowed power flowed through him, but would it be enough to open what he'd sealed at the height of his abilities? The Anchor was lost to him and with it, the key that he'd created to unlock each of these mirrors and access the blighted sleepers who lay beyond.

Fen'Harel closed his eyes. Concentrating, he reached for the flame of Mythal's magic that burned in the center of his chest like a new heart. He could sense the mirrors lighting up around him, thrumming with energy – but then the power drained away. The Eluvians faded back to gleaming shards of shadow.

He'd have to try harder.

* * *

After Briala's agents had given them the locations, they disappeared back into the mist. The camp fell into a tense silence.

Abelas resumed his carving, the sound of his knife scraping over stone adding to the unease.

"Mythal endures," he said finally. "It must be so. What is dead cannot die."

"Not every dream has to mean something," Veda said.

"Hm. Says the somniari, lover of Fen'Harel." Abelas frowned. "The Wolf was Mythal's friend. He mourned her first death. Why would he destroy her vessel?"

"I don't know. Maybe he didn't."

"You think he is not a killer? He always claimed such noble intentions, spurning blood magic or the red madness that came from the Void, but he was as capable of ruthlessness as any of them. Mythal knew it, but she knew how to predict it, to turn it to good use."

"I know he is capable of many things," Veda said. "I have killed people too, believing it was a necessity. I didn't enjoy it. Neither does he."

"Where do you think he will stop? Is there anything he will flinch from when necessity leads him? It would seem that Mythal was no obstacle. You believe he would stop with you, if you interfered with his plans?"

"I hope he would."

Solas had given her little to substantiate her belief. So far, his plans had taken priority over whatever he still felt for her.

Yet faith was a powerful thing. Veda had witnessed how belief in the Maker had nourished Cassandra's strength and kept Cullen, Josephine and Leiliana from breaking in the face of terrible adversity. She'd never placed much trust in absent deities – the Creators who succumbed to traps, a Maker who abandoned all he'd made in a fit of pique, the dull Stone that the Dwarves swore by. Yet, in the end, an absent deity was exactly what she yearned for, what she'd given up everything to pursue. Fen'Harel might be a god in name only, but he was certainly far away, offering her only visions and portents, such tokens as Andraste might've settled for. What was that if not a kind of faith?

"But you are not certain?" Abelas asked.

"No," she said.

Dorian sighed in exasperation. "You elves are depressing me. Can't we be optimistic for once? Nobody is going to kill anyone. We're just going to have a lovely awkward chat with Veda's ex-boyfriend. 'Hello, Fen'Harel,' we'll say, "Are you planning on doing something evil?' and Solas will go, 'Of course not. I'm just here regretting my life decisions and polishing my bald head to a high shine. Have I mentioned that I love the Fade?' After that, I will turn him into a newt for hurting my best friend's feelings, the dreadful cad. A marvellously happy ending for everyone."

Veda wrinkled her nose. "Except maybe Solas the Newt."

"Oh no, he'll enjoy the change in lifestyle," said Dorian. "All that crawling and eating insects and... uh, what is it newts do again? There's never a creature researcher around when one needs them."

Abelas pressed his face into the palms of his hands. His brow furrowed, the inky branches of Mythal's vallaslin contorting. "I will go to sleep now. When I awaken, you will no longer be talking about this."

Dorian shrugged as if he couldn't make any promises. Abelas plodded off to his bedroll.

"I'll take first watch then," Veda said.

Cole nodded at her from across the illusory fire they'd constructed. "I'll stay with you."

Spirits didn't need sleep, so Cole was on permanent watch duty. He seemed to like company, however, and other than Veda and Solas, few members of the Inquisition were willing to sleep with only Cole watching over them. Typically, Veda paired him with another party member for each shift of the night watch. Pairing Cole with Sera had the added benefit of leaving her too frightened to play pranks on everyone while they slept.

"I suppose that means I should get my beauty rest." Dorian stood, resting a hand on Veda's shoulder. "You're not to think about anything sorrowful and dire while I'm rejuvenating myself, do you understand? Just unicorns and rainbows and happy endings."

"And newts." Veda smiled up at him, giving his hand a pat. "Dorian, you're the best."

"Yes, I'm glorious. Trust me, my dear, I'm well aware."

"He still likes to hear it though," Cole said.

"Well, of course. What use is it being delightful if one isn't duly appreciated?"

Dorian padded over to his bedroll. He wrapped himself up in layers of blankets so that he looked faintly like one of those crescent-shaped Orlesian pastries stuffed with chocolate filling.

"This camping business is intolerable," he grumbled from somewhere deep inside his cocoon. "The earth looks soft until one lies down - then it's as hard as Bull's head. His upper one. How anyone can get a wink of sleep under these conditions is a complete and utter mystery..."

Veda stifled a laugh. What a city boy he was. If they encouraged him, no doubt he'd moan about having to camp all night, then expand upon his monologue in the morning with complaints of how he hadn't slept and it was giving him dark circles under his eyes.

"Goodnight, Dorian!"

"As if it were possible to pass a _good_ night in these barbaric circumstances," the huddled lump in the bedroll replied. "But goodnight all the same."

A few hours before dawn, Abelas woke to replace Veda on watch. He sat beside Cole, staring sullenly at the fading embers of the magical fire.

At least Cole will be entertained, Veda thought. No doubt Abelas had centuries' worth of pain to unravel.

She shook out her bedroll, which attracted Abelas' notice and set Cole to murmuring about her fear of spiders. Damn straight she was scared of spiders. Veda wasn't taking any chances, even here in the Crossroads, where there were few signs of life.

Satisfied that nothing would come creeping up her ankle during the night, she wriggled into her bedroll. Veda cradled her head in her arms, finding the earth a familiar comfort. It was mattresses that were strange to her, mattresses and goose-down pillows and fancy beds so high off the ground one risked bruises falling.

Behind her, where the light still flickered, she could hear Abelas' gruff voice, then Cole's more tentative one. So they were talking. Although she couldn't make out the words, it didn't sound uncivil. For some reason, that pleased her.

Veda closed her eyes. The prospect of sleep filled her with both anxiety and anticipation. Would Solas keep his promise? Would he come to her again in dreams, so she might question him? She longed to see him, to feel his arms enfold around her, yet she was afraid where their meeting might lead. When she asked her questions, his answers might not be the ones she wanted to hear.

Sleep crept up on her despite these racing thoughts. Within a few minutes, she'd fallen into a deep and grateful slumber.


	14. Third Dream: The Burial of the Dead, 1

**Third Dream: The Burial of the Dead**

_April is the cruelest month, breeding_

_Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing_

_Memory and desire, stirring_

_Dull roots with spring rain._

\- TS Eliot, _The Wasteland_

* * *

Solas awaited her on the edge of a darkened plain, where her waking mind met the landscape of her dreams. Veda recognized his silhouette immediately, even from afar, the contours of his profile silvered by moonlight. At her approach, he lit the brazier beside him with an elegant flick of his fingers.

The gesture reminded Veda of their conference in the camp outside of Haven so long ago. She'd admired the sinuous grace of Solas' movements then too, how the veilfire flickered over his hand, its green-blue light caressing his face as she would've liked to. They'd shared a secret then, a bond as elven outsiders made them huddle in the shadows and whisper like accomplices. Perhaps it'd been the first step to sharing that fateful kiss in the Fade, the one that had changed so much in her heart and in how she perceived the world.

"Well met," Solas said. "How fare you since last we spoke?"

Veda sensed anticipation, perhaps even a hint of eagerness, in the soft lilt of his voice. On the surface, he looked as assured as ever, but that veneer was too smooth, too self-conscious. It was the sort of false bravado that she'd become familiar with because it was Dorian's favourite refuge when he didn't know how to cope. Her intuition told her Solas was putting on a similar performance, albeit a subtler one.

"There's been some bad news," Veda said. "We've encountered reports that imply Mythal is gone – if not dead, then greatly diminished. Were you aware of that?"

Solas peered into the veilfire. His eyes reflected the wild dance of the flames.

"I took her power. She bequeathed it me. Without it, I would not have been able to continue with my duties."

"Did you kill her?"

"No. It didn't come to that. She surrendered it willingly. She was...generous."

"But you would have fought her," Veda persisted. "If you had to."

"I would have done it with great regret."

"But you would have done it."

He bowed his head. "Yes."

His confession should not have hurt. It shouldn't have come as any surprise, yet it struck Veda like a fist to the gut. She had to take a second to regain her breath.

"Abelas will be glad you didn't harm her. He's upset. As you can imagine."

"Abelas is with you?" Solas' eyes narrowed. "He sought you out?"

Veda found the sharpness in his tone peculiar. The few times she'd heard it, it had been during discussions about the Grey Wardens or the Well of Sorrows, contentious subjects, ones that roused his temper. Was it possible he was jealous? No, Solas was too self-possessed for that. Likely, he was surprised she'd connected with the Temple's Sentinels, when they'd been so distrusting.

Nonetheless, she wasn't going to reassure him. Let him think Abelas was plying her with sweet-talk and gifts, doing everything in his power to cozy up to her. Solas didn't need to know that they spent most of their time bickering or that Abelas seemed dead-set on reminding her that she was an inferior breed of elf compared to the brilliance of her ancestors.

"Yes, Abelas and his people came to Skyhold. He's proven very helpful."

This wasn't a lie, not entirely. Abelas had been helpful – when he wasn't complaining about how inefficient everything was.

Solas avoided her gaze, pacing around the fire."No doubt he has. Temple priests are possessed of many skills. Yet I would be wary. They tend to be dogmatic and inflexible in their views. A grievous fault."

It was subtle, as most things were with Solas, but Veda had the definite impression she'd just heard him take a dig at a perceived rival. Perhaps he wasn't above jealousy. She couldn't resist the urge to test him further.

"Not an admirer of Abelas then?"

"Have I often expressed admiration for those who surrender freedom of thought for false certainty? No, I'm not an admirer of Abelas. I pity him. I hope you have the good sense to do the same."

Oh, something had made him cranky, alright. It was as if she'd just suggested they elope to Par Vollen and join the Qun. Veda glanced down, doing her best to hide her amusement. Goading him was more fun that it had any right to be.

"You feel strongly about this."

"I feel strongly about many things. Surely you know that by now." He took a breath, seeming to reconsider his response. His tone softened. "If you would, please tell Abelas that...I'm sorry about Mythal. It was a measure I wished to avoid. If it gives him any comfort, I believe she endures, in some form. I did not consume all of her power."

"I will."

"Thank you." He turned his eyes to the path ahead. "Come, there is much to see and little time before morning."

They hiked up a mountain ridge. As Veda climbed, the night winds swelled behind her, speeding her way along the rocky slope. A full moon bathed the path in gentle light.

Solas trailed behind her, as he'd done on the trek to Skyhold. Back then, it'd suited him to create the illusion that she knew the way. Why he held back now, Veda did not know. His stride was longer than hers and it would have been a simple matter for him to outpace her. Instead, he seemed to keep his energy in reserve, biding his time.

Veda crested the ridge and gazed at the valley below, breathless with wonderment. Crystalline towers soared past ancient redwoods. Amid dark groves, silver minarets speared the night sky, contending with the stars in their brightness. A winding path of moonlit orbs led to a city floating like a waterlily above the silky ripples of a vast, black lake.

Solas drew up behind her. She sensed his watchful gaze taking in her reaction, and she realized he'd planned this, that he took the climb slowly so he might revel in her surprise.

"This was once my home," he murmured. "Capital of Elvhenan. Arlathan."

Veda had heard the word before, but never had it affected her so. It was every love she ever lost. It was every regret she ever whispered into the parched summer grass. It was every hope carried away by an autumn breeze.

She turned to him. "Ir abelas."

Solas shook his head. "No. Do not apologize. It is I who am sorry. Once, this might have been your home too. Now it is lost, except to memory and to dreams."

"Now I have dreamed it," she said. "I will remember also."

He smiled. "So you will. A comfort."

They went down into the valley. Coming closer to the pearly light of the orbs, Veda saw they were fueled by veilfire. Wisps flitted around them like moths.

"Would you care to attend a banquet in the city?" Solas asked.

"I'd like that."

He scrutinized his faded traveling clothes. "Of course, a change of costume will be in order."

In the blink of an eye, his humble cotton shirt and doe-skin trousers transformed into an elegant dove-gray ensemble, topped with a wolf pelt slung over his shoulder. It was a simple change, yet he looked magnificent, exuding a masterful quality that his ragged apostate's clothes had been calculated to obscure. Veda found it difficult to tear her gaze away.

She expected her beloved Keeper's robes wouldn't be the height of fashion in Arlathan either. "I don't know the styles here. What would you recommend?"

"I suppose I've observed Elvhen garments in passing, but I would hardly call myself an expert." Solas said. "You were hoping for a dress at the Winter Palace, were you not? What colour do you favour?"

"Blue," Veda said shyly, a little embarrassed at her eagerness for the gown. "With maybe a touch of silver?"

"What do you think of this?"

In place of her Keeper's robes, she now wore a sapphire blue gown as iridescent as butterfly's wings. The silk clung to every curve of her body, while the gown's silver neckline dipped low to offer up an enticing glimpse of cleavage.

A revealing choice, Veda thought, and not simply in how it displayed her figure. If this was how Solas imagined her, he was entertaining some sensual ideas.

"I think it's far better than what Josephine had me wear to the Winter Ball."

Solas smiled, inspecting her with appreciative eyes. "I'm glad it pleases you. Already it seems Arlathan suits you well." He offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

It seemed that the return to Elvhenan put him in a courtly mood. It would do no harm to play along, she thought. Tonight, they could afford to entertain the fantasy that all the beauty and grandeur of this world were theirs, with none of the cruelty, none of the sorrow. Under this false moonlight, she might be his lady and he might be her lord, with no secrets to part them.

Veda laced her arm through his. "Of course. Lead the way."

Everywhere they looked, there were spirits. Some were gauzy, fleeting and insubstantial as the wind, while others were almost part of the landscape, embedded in the earth like rocks.

Through their presence, one could sense emotions, instincts and desires floating on the air, richly layered as notes in a fine perfume. Memories glistened like raindrops on fern leaves. Infinite possibilities fanned out under the surface of simple things. If one looked hard enough, the spirits might show you reflections of what had been, of what might be, of what never was. Nothing was static. An acorn dropped to the ground, grew into a towering oak and fell to the woodsman's ax in a single moment. Past, present and a thousand potential futures existed at once, waiting to be touched.

"It's wonderful," she murmured. "But...how do you make sense of it all? There's so much of...everything, all at once."

"Although you are a skilled mage, you are accustomed to the Veil," Solas said. "Until now, it has a clear boundary for you between the actual and possible. Under such circumstances, you've needed to push past that boundary to summon forth your magic into the waking world."

"It takes a concentrated effort," Veda said. "Here, it's almost effortless."

He nodded. "Here, there is no Veil and no clear distinction or limit. You must set your own limits. With practice, you would learn to focus on the visions that are useful to you and disregard what is inessential. It is a muscle that those used to the Veil might regain with time, just as a restored Tranquil might learn to organize and manage a wide spectrum of emotions."

"It's like reading a book by an overzealous scholar. There are six footnotes behind every word," she said. "Is this how Cole sees the world?"

"Not quite, but close. Being a spirit, what he perceives is naturally limited by his purpose, Compassion. Nonetheless, he still receives an overwhelming amount of information and it is sometimes difficult for him to focus."

"How does anyone keep a secret in a world without the Veil? Is everything completely transparent here?"

Solas laughed. "No, not at all. Secrets may still be hidden and indeed, the Court of Thorns in Arlathan would be nothing without its mysteries. As you've said, there's so much of everything. If one wants to detect a secret, one must know precisely where to look and what to look for. The expression that comes to mind is 'looking for a needle in a haystack'. Few have the focus or the wit to do it with any great frequency."

"You are one of the few?" she cast him a sidelong smile.

"On occasion, I've succeeded in the endeavour."

That sounded like false modesty, but Veda decided to let it pass. Humility would always ring a little false when one was worshiped as a god. No wonder Solas had taken such delight in disguising himself as a ragged apostate or an elven servingman, any role that might give him the pleasure of being unobtrusive.

As they approached the lake, Veda began to see greater numbers of Elvhen. Some of the ancient elves were lavishly dressed in satin and brocade, feathers and furs. Their faces were unmarked by vallaslin, although decorated with gems, paint and even fragments of bone. A few strolled along the path as Solas and Veda did, but others were borne aloft on palanquins or sedan chairs carried by other elves, evidently their slaves.

By contrast, the slaves wore hooded robes, their faces masked by vallaslin. Veda recognized all the traditional patterns of tattoos, but she was most stricken by the sight of slaves inked with the signs of Dirthamen, the markings she'd once worn with pride.

"You seem troubled," Solas said.

"I see the divisions you told me about. The nobles and their slaves. I'm dressed in the costume of a noble, but more likely, I'm a descendant of slaves. I once wore the markings of a slave. I feel...complicit."

He nodded, his hand enfolding hers.

"You have been here but a few moments in a dream. You have not contributed to any real suffering. Imagine, instead, that you were part of this system for millennia. You watched it grind people down until their immortal bodies became a curse to them. They were eternal, but eternally bound. You were clear-sighted enough to realize the evil in this, yet you spent centuries with your eyes shut tight, unwilling to look because it would prove inconvenient – you might feel the urge to act and that would endanger the comfortable life you'd made for yourself, the accomplishments and status you'd attained. If you can imagine that, you will know true complicity. You will know what I was once. You may even begin to guess at the contempt I had for myself and for the others who played along with what they knew was wrong, because it was easy."

"You led the slave rebellion," Veda said. "You may have been complicit once, but clearly that changed."

"Yes, I changed," Solas said. "Of course, change is never easy. It comes at a price. One day, I visited the estate of a dear friend. I expected to be greeted by his slave at the door, but instead, it was my friend who answered, an unusual breach of decorum. I saw he was upset so I inquired what was wrong. During the night, nearly all of his slaves had poisoned themselves. There were but a few left. I went with him to his slave quarters and saw the bodies in their bunks."

Veda saw the horror of this memory reflected in his eyes. "That must have been...unspeakably awful."

"It was...not something I'll soon forget and I have seen many atrocities since that day," Solas said.

Veda thought back to the thousands obliterated in the blast at the Conclave. Hundreds more had been slain in the battles waged against Corypheus and his followers. The Inquisition had encountered so much death and destruction in only a few short seasons. How many horrors could someone see in 8000 years? She wasn't sure it was a question that she wanted him to answer.

"My friend's slaves were not poorly treated by the standards of the time," Solas continued, "yet they were so bereft of hope that oblivion seemed a blessing to them. It was the only path they could imagine to their freedom. Among mortals, this is horrific, but among immortals, it was even more shocking: we so rarely looked upon death. It was anathema to us." He loosed a faint sigh, as if trying to let the memory go. "After witnessing that, I could no longer equivocate or live in denial. I chose to act and in so doing, I saved myself from poison too, albeit a slower one that would have corrupted my spirit."

She gave his hand a soft squeeze. "I think the world is better for your spirit – or at least, I am. I'll admit to being prejudiced in the matter."

He squeezed her fingers back. "You are undoubtedly prejudiced in the matter. But in this instance, I'd be a fool to object."

They reached the edge of the lake. Dark waves lapped gently against the sand. Above them loomed the lost glories of Arlathan, so enticingly close and yet as distant as a mirage in the desert. There was no bridge to the city, not even a boat to ferry them over the water.

"How are we to get up there?" she asked. "It's not exactly...accessible."

"It's accessible to those with a talent for magic," Solas replied. "You're accustomed to a world that privileges the mundane. Here, we rely on spellcraft for practically everything." He pointed to a graceful archway at the edge of the city. "We will fade-step to that ledge. You'll need to keep that indomitable focus of yours."

The spot he gestured to was an absurd distance away. Veda had never attempted to fade-step so far, nevermind to do it through the air. "That's not a fade-step. It's a fade-leap!"

He bit back a smile. "You have the proficiency to do it. I trust in your skill; trust in it too and you will not fall."

Veda closed her eyes, envisioning the distant archway. She imagined how the streets of Arlathan would feel under her feet. Here in the Fade, her well of mana was unfathomably deep, almost bottomless. She would not falter. She would not fall.

"Alright. I'm ready."

They launched from the shore at the same moment, Solas still gripping her hand. As always, the speed was incredible, wind whistling past her ears, blood surging through her veins. The night air nipped at her cheeks, then her feet struck solid ground. She stumbled, her landing less than graceful.

Solas caught her in his arms, giving a laugh of such full-throated joy it startled her, then gladdened her heart. Had she ever seen him so unabashedly happy? Veda had caught glimpses of it from him, in their contented hours at Skyhold, when they danced at the Winter Palace or during their rapturous nights in the Fade, but nothing so free and spontaneous as this. Back then, Solas had been hunted, an apostate hiding his identity and past crimes. Here, he was in his element. Here, he was what he'd been born to be – if not a god, then something very close to it.

He gazed down at her, his smile fading, and for a moment, Veda was certain he was going to lean down and kiss her. She stiffened under his touch, torn between the pull of her body and the nagging awareness that he was still an unknown quantity. Abelas had brought up a good point – if Solas would sacrifice Mythal, he might sacrifice anyone. She didn't want to be another sacrifice he'd set on the altar of duty.

Veda laid a hand upon his cheek, a soft touch yet enough to keep him from closing the space between them. "I like to hear you laugh. I wish I were enough to make you happy."

Solas placed his hand over her own, his fingers entwining with hers. Drawing Veda's hand from his face, he set it over his heart. She felt its steady rhythm even through the heavy weave of his jacket.

"You are enough. More than enough. But happiness is not a gift one can give. You know that."

"I wish it were different," she said. "I'd like to visit that other world, where you were not the Dread Wolf nor I, the Inquisitor, where we might simply...exist together without fear of the consequences."

"Do you fear me?" he asked.

"You're brilliant, powerful and driven by motives I don't understand. Motives that you refuse to explain. I would be foolish not to fear you, however much I -" Veda was going to say 'love you' but those words made her feel too exposed, too much like the woman who'd once trusted him so blindly and whose eyes had stung with tears when he'd abandoned her. She needed something safer. " - I care about you."

"You're right to distrust me. I have deceived you. I have a history of flawed judgments. Yet I don't deceive you in this: I never want to see you come to harm. To have a part in that would be the end of me."

"Mythal was your oldest friend. You were willing to sacrifice her. Why should I be any different?"

"Because...you are. Different," he said. "Besides, it will not come to that."

"Are you certain of that?"

"I am certain of few things beyond my own convictions. It will not reach that point."

"Alright. If you assure me of that, I'm willing to...move forward."

"Thank you. I understand your trepidation. Your trust is a gift, one I have done little to earn. Perhaps we can change that tonight." Solas extended a hand towards the path ahead. "Come, Arlathan awaits."


	15. Third Dream: The Burial of the Dead 2

They passed through the gates of Arlathan. The storied capital of Elvhenan made Val Royeaux look like a provincial backwater. Here, the towers soared higher than any Veda had ever seen, held aloft by tremulous webs of magic. At the center of the city, the dome of a great palace glowed like a pearl.

Although it was the middle of the night, the streets bustled with life, courtyards and avenues illuminated by floating orbs and the reflected sheen of the buildings.

Market stalls were open and each booth offered something to fascinate prospective buyers. There were clothes that changed texture and colour dependent on the wearer's mood, tiny winged salamanders being sold as pets, pinwheeling fireworks and prisms that refracted light into rainbows. There were bronze automatons that appeared to be of dwarven-make and they followed the peddler's marching orders like a miniature army. There were icons and emblems of the Creators, some carved in ironwood, others in precious metals.

Veda searched for one that showed Fen'Harel, but there were none on offer. She turned an inquiring gaze on Solas.

"Fen'Harel does not think himself a god," he said. "He – I didn't encourage worship. In any case, there are few in Arlathan who would be inclined to praise one who rejects the traditional structures of power. This is a bastion of the elites."

She took his hand as they walked onward. His fingers curled around hers, tentatively at first, then with a growing sense of comfort.

"Is it hard for you to be here?" Veda asked. "Even in the Fade?"

"At moments. At other times, it is a great pleasure, especially in present company. I am accustomed to this world, its benefits and its failings. It becomes all the more fascinating to me when I see it reflected in your eyes."

"What do you think I see?"

"That... is a very good question." Solas looked down at the rose quartz tiles lining the streets, seeming to mull it over. "I imagine you see injustice, but also beauty and grandeur, an empire that reaches across a continent and out past the seas and makes even the Tevinter of old seem a petty prospect. Do I guess rightly?"

"Yes, that's part of what I feel. I see the beauty and I mourn for it. I'll admit, I don't think even such grandeur is worth the price of slavery and injustice. Could the luxury exist without the unfairness? I'm not certain."

"Fen'Harel entertained similar notions. You know where it led."

"It led to change and to consequences no one could have predicted," she said. "It led to you and me, too. I wouldn't say it's been entirely bad."

Solas gave a pained smile, faint lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. He'd never looked his age, even when he'd claimed only forty years of wandering, yet, for an instant, Veda glimpsed the burden of the time he carried like a boulder strapped to his back.

"I'm fortunate to enjoy such side benefits for having ruined the world."

"You didn't ruin the world, Solas. I know the future wasn't what you expected when you awoke, but there's still hope."

"You gave me hope. You give it to me still. I hadn't expected such a thing. After 8,000 years, one may still be surprised."

"You're easy to surprise. You always expect the worst."

That gave him pause. He seem to roll the remark around in his mind, studying its weight and contours.

"Cynicism has been a useful attitude at times. It has kept me wary of the worst excesses of mortals and immortals alike. It has saved me from unnecessary disappointments. But you're correct. Grim fatalism isn't an accurate approach when it comes to you."

Veda was pleased to hear him admit it. Whether it would actually change his behaviour was another matter. Still, one had to savour the small victories in this life, especially when she was sparring with an immortal, one whose habits and beliefs had entrenched themselves over centuries.

"All the doom-and-gloom was remarkably effective at luring me into bed," she teased. "If only so I could cheer you up."

Solas chuckled. "There are other stratagems I might devise to achieve such a worthwhile goal. Surely, cultivating a black and bitter heart isn't the only way to win fair maiden?"

"We fair maidens also like dancing." Her gown swished about her feet as if it too was eager to whirl across a dance floor.

"So I've observed," he said. "As it happens, I'm quite fond of dancing myself."

They turned onto a wide boulevard lined with ancient trees and marble statues.

Veda recognized sculptures of the Creators by the symbols on the pedestals and accoutrements they carried, although some of the representations were unusual, to say the least. Elgar'nan was represented as a terrifying monstrosity, all eyes and tentacles. Dirthamen and Falon'Din's statues were positioned side-by-side, bound together at their waists by a golden chain. June was recognizable by the hammer in his hand, but he appeared short and stocky, almost dwarf-like. Fen'Harel's pedestal was empty, defaced by crude graffiti of a slavering wolf.

"They took your statue away?" Veda asked.

Solas shook his head, covering the wolf's grimacing mouth with his hand, as if the sight of it shamed him. "I never had a statue here. I thought an empty pedestal made my position clear enough."

They approached the domed palace, passing through a lush garden.

"Here is our destination," Solas said. "The Court of Thorns."

The name seemed spectacularly ill-suited to the place. Morning glory wound around the gates, open-mouthed flowers like a fanfare of trumpets. Branches of lilac festooned a nearby gazebo. There were no brambles in sight.

"Don't be deceived by the flowers," Solas said. "The people here are thorns."

Veda watched spirits tremble through the leaves of the elms. Orchids grew in the damp, in the shadows, and their petals were like the flesh of corpses. She shivered, giving her head a faint shake, as if to cast away morbid thoughts.

"Is the court anything like Orlais?" she murmured.

"The Game of the Orlesians is but a children's trifle compared to what occurs in this place. Celene, Gaspard and Briala play out their strategies for simple stakes over only a few years before death or downfall overtakes them. Here, the schemes span centuries and the deceit runs deeper than rivers."

"No wonder Halamshiral amused you so."

"It brought back memories," he said. "Not all of them good, but I took pleasure in the familiarity. Perhaps you will do the same here. After all, you foiled the plotters of the Winter Palace. I'd say you are ready to brave a night among the Pantheon and their followers."

Veda's eyes widened. They were going to walk among the Creators? She smoothed her hands along the sides of her gown to conceal the trembling of her fingers.

They're not real gods, she told herself. They're no more gods than the man whose hand is gripped around yours, this man who was once your lover, as close as your heart. Why are you so afraid?

To distract herself, Veda recalled the rules of deportment Josephine had drilled her through a hundred times. One must take small steps so that the skirt of one's gown brushed softly against the marble floor, a mere whisper. One should hold one's head high, shoulders drawn back, neck long and swan-like. A lady should avoid leaning on her escort, placing only the gentlest weight on his arm as he guides her into the vestibule. There were more guidelines and admonitions, dozens more, but they dissolved from Veda's mind as she was confronted with the splendour of the Court of Thorns.

The palace interior hardly felt as if it were indoors. Majestic redwoods covered in moss grew amid the main hall. Upon closer examination, the domed ceiling was a magical barrier, more finely-wrought than any glass, so that one had only to look up to see a full moon and a glittering swathe of stars. Some of the walls blazed with the bluish-green flames Veda knew as Veilfire, although it must have another name here, in this world where the Veil had not yet been invented. Others walls were cascades of water or glistening barricades of ice.

Among the crowd of partygoers, Veda thought she spotted a few of the Creators. Andruil stood amid a throng of followers, still dressed in her hunting leathers, her legendary bow and a quiver of black arrows strapped upon her back. Her angular face was smeared with fresh blood.

Ghilan'nain was but a few paces from the huntress' side, her white hair topped with a towering headdress of halla antlers. She scanned the crowd with cold and distant eyes, frowning faintly, as if she'd detected something she didn't like.

Elvhen nobles dined and sipped wine, lounging together on long couches. They wore fashions as outrageous as any she'd seen in the Winter Palace and the squares of the Val Royeaux, although the styles in Arlathan had a primal edge, bedecked with shells, animal pelts, feathers and teeth.

By no means could they be described as a modest bunch. Some women wore asymmetrical dresses that bared one of their pert breasts. Others, both male and female, wore nothing but bejeweled belts or a sheer metallic mesh. By contrast, Veda's clingy, low-cut gown seemed positively chaste.

She cast a wry glance at Solas, keeping her voice low."Thank you for not putting me in some of these outfits."

"It was a temptation, I'll confess. I anticipated you'd be most comfortable in something less...overt."

"That was a good guess."

"Besides, what's concealed can be more erotic than what is freely exposed. One's imagination enjoys a challenge."

Solas darted forward, plucking two goblets of wine from the tray of a passing servingman. He offered Veda one, which she accepted eagerly.

He raised his goblet in a toast. "In bellanaris."

_Dwell in eternity_. That was the best translation Veda could manage for his words. She supposed it made sense among immortals.

She touched her goblet to his. "In bellanaris."

They drank. The wine was marvelous and went straight to her head.

"I have a question for my Fade expert," Veda said. "If I were to get drunk in a dream, will I waken with a hangover the next morning? This is completely all hypothetical, of course."

"Of course." Solas' eyes glimmered with amusement. "As your Fade expert, I can guarantee there will be no adverse effects when you wake in the morning. However, as your prospective dance partner, I would recommend you keep a clear head. The dances here are livelier than those in Orlais."

Veda was not one to refuse that challenge. She didn't have the distinction of being the best dancer in Clan Lavellan, but she'd certainly been one of the most avid.

"Are you suggesting I can only waltz? You may be an unmatched expert in the Fade, but it's obvious you know nothing about Dalish dancing."

It took some time for Veda to espy another attendant passing with a tray and return their emptied goblets. How odd that there should be so few slaves to wait upon the banquet. Those that she did see were strangely inattentive, conferring with one another in shadowed corners. Such sights filled Veda with a sense of foreboding. This was how Briala's agents had behaved at the Winter Palace.

"The slaves here..." she whispered.

Solas nodded. "Watch. Wait. It is no accident I chose to bring you to this specific place, at this particular hour. In time, you will see. For now, remember: this is the shadow of things past. Nothing can be changed. There are no intercessions here."

Veda wondered if the reminder was meant for her or for himself. Here was the world he'd hoped to redeem recreated in all its grandeur and all its decadence. Was the illusion becoming too real for him? It was a dangerous game for a somniari to play.

The first strains of music lilted over the ballroom, fiddles, drums and lyres accompanied by a melodious choir of spirits, voices that might draw tears from stones or lure the stars from their heavens.

Solas crooked his head towards the open dance floor. "Care to dance?" He bowed forward, extending one of his elegantly tapered hands.

Veda smiled. "You know the answer to that."

She caught his hand, quick to storm the parquet tiles before other couples could steal their thunder.

Solas spun her around, clasping her close to his chest then twirling her outward again. Veda passed under the bridge of his arms, then he caught her waist, drawing her in again. The footwork was very fast, but luckily, it wasn't much different from the reels and jigs she'd learned among her clan.

"You dance well." There was a faint hitch in his voice as he caught his breath. "Odd, that the Dalish would forget so much, yet remember these movements."

"You're not so bad yourself." Veda smirked at him. "I'm surprised. You're quite spry for such an _ancient_ elf..."

Solas laughed, spinning her until the room became a kaleidoscopic haze, music and voices echoing in every direction. "Take care now. I'm not so ancient I can't dance you off your feet."

She bumped against his chest and he steadied her, letting her head rest against his shoulder. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, pressing her still closer. They stood very still, an island amid the swift current of the music.

Veda gazed up at him, suddenly at a loss for words. His mouth pressed against hers and there was no need to speak.

Solas drew back from the kiss, his eyes flicking open as if he were waking from a dream within a dream. "I could say 'Ir abelas', but it would be a lie. I'm not sorry for this. I'd do it again."

Her lips curved into a smile. "Then do it again."

"Na nuvenin."

He kissed her more forcefully this time, his hands straying down to the small of her back. Veda could sense the other partygoers darting glances at them, startled and curious, if not scandalized, at this amorous pair locked in a clinch in the midst of a bustling dance floor. They definitely in violation of Josephine's rules of decorum, but it felt so glorious, she didn't care.

The music stopped. The other dancers on the floor came to an abrupt halt, looking around dazedly. Veda's first instinct was to assume she and Solas had been the cause of the interruption, but no one was watching them anymore. All eyes had turned to the other side of the room. There were gasps, then murmurs and panicked whispers.

Peering through a gap in the crowd, Veda spotted the interloper. An Elvhen man strode across the ballroom, followed by a procession of armed slaves. He was lean and graceful, with a narrow face and keen gray eyes. A mass of wavy brown hair fell past his shoulders, pulled back from his forehead in thick twists and crowned with a fragment of wolf's skull. He wore his jacket open and underneath, his chest was bare, a wolf's jaw pendant grazing against smooth skin.

Veda turned back to her dance partner. Solas met her look with steady grey eyes, his expression inscrutable, yet denying nothing. They were mirror images, give or take some hair, a change of clothes and a few centuries of suffering.

"Fen'Harel," she breathed. "You."

Solas winced, closing his eyes and giving a faint nod. "The ghost of my folly."

"Won't he recognize you...himself?"

"No. He is but a memory. He will not see you or me. Which is for the best, I think. Fen'Harel would not react well to the presence of an older double and you would provoke his curiosity, among other things. I should not like to have my younger self as a rival."

They watched as a copper-haired Elvhen woman intercepted Fen'Harel before he made it to the center of the ballroom. Her dress held a full spectrum of colours, sizzling around her like a flame.

"Dread Wolf. I don't recall issuing you an invitation."

"That's because you didn't, Sylaise. Yet it's never stopped me from coming. I enjoy parties. Even when the company is tedious, one can always dance."

Even from afar, Fen'Harel's eyes gleamed. His lips curled into a smirk that seemed to add, _And I will always dance circles around dull-witted creatures such as you._

Sylaise glowered at him, fire igniting at the ends of her gloved fingers. The fire took on shapes, one of a wolf and one of a high dragon. The wolf snapped its jaws at the dragon and the dragon consumed it in a burst of flame and smoke. "You presume too much, Dread Wolf."

Fen'Harel scoffed at her. "Cheap parlour tricks. Do they actually frighten those pious dullards that trail in your wake? Ah, to be so easily impressed."

Veda noticed Andruil break from the crowd, despite Ghilan'nain's attempts to draw her back. The huntress prowled up behind Sylaise, leaned forward and sunk her teeth into the nape of her neck.

Sylaise whipped around, glaring at her. Sparks shot up from her dress and the ends of her hair. "Sister!"

Andruil bared her teeth in a crooked grin. Her amber eyes were flecked with spots of red like madness. "The Wolf doesn't fear you, sister sweet. When last I wandered in the deep, I made a knife to skin him. He knows to fear me."

Fen'Harel kept his composure. Veda had to give him credit for that. If she didn't know Solas so well, she might never have detected the way his spine stiffened or the faint tightness in his jaw when Andruil drew near. Only those who knew the man intimately, who'd glimpsed him at his most vulnerable, would guess the Dread Wolf was afraid, fighting back the same skin-crawling sort of horror that she'd seen in Solas when they'd ventured too close to a vein of red lyrium.

"As always, you mistake revulsion for respect," he said. "The only thing I fear is that your madness may be catching."

A voice spoke up from across the ballroom. "How you children go on...What's the cause of all this commotion?"

It was a distinctive voice, low and throaty, laden with maternal indulgence. Veda had heard it before, when she spoke to Flemeth, Morrigan's mother, in the Crossroads, yet it was strange to see it coming from a silver-haired Elvhen woman, her hair twisted into dragon's horns. Her eyes were deep-set, sunk in bony sockets, unspeakably old, unspeakably cunning, despite the smoothness of her face, the vigor of her movements. Undoubtedly, this was Mythal, a mother, a monster, both ancient and ageless.

"The Wolf thinks he may intrude where he is not welcome," Sylaise said. There was a petulance in her voice that made Veda smile in spite of herself. The goddess of the hearth was tattling. It seemed even the Creators were reduced to childhood tricks in the presence of their mother.

"I'm not here for her absurd party," Fen'Harel retorted. "I'm here for the men and women unjustly kept as slaves."

He looked across the ballroom, at the servants cowering along the walls.

"Any of you who desires freedom, come stand with me. I will protect you. When I leave this place, you will walk with me, without chains, without the vallaslin's binding."

A few slaves darted forward to join him, but most stood riveted to their spots, seeming to think better of crossing Mythal or Andruil's paths. The ones who did go to him ran for their lives. Fen'Harel's honour guard quickly closed ranks around them.

Mythal raised an eyebrow. "You are bold, Dread Wolf, to bring soldiers into this court, where they have been forbidden."

Fen'Harel glanced at the freed slaves beside him.

"Soldiers? I see no soldiers. These are my companions. They bear arms, but so does Andruil. For some reason, you trust her not to resort to insane violence. Even though insane violence is her preferred stock-in-trade."

Andruil licked dried blood from the corners of her lips. Veda didn't think this was helping her case.

Mythal looked at the huntress inquiringly, as if trying to discern where the blood had come from. At last, she gave a long sigh, seeming to despair of an answer.

"My sweet Andruil. She's also in violation of the rules here. As I have warned her many times before." She addressed her daughter, her expression becoming stern. "The bow. Give it to me."

Andruil took the bow from her shoulder. She seemed ready to hand it to Mythal - then spun around, flinging it to Ghilan'nain.

"Ghil has it. She's no threat."

Mythal frowned. "Very well. But you try my patience. Don't push me too far. You remember the last time..."

"My memory is full of holes and cuts and slashes," Andruil said. "I see the scars on us both. Those tell a tale."

With that, she slunk back to Ghilan'nain and her circle of followers. Everyone seemed to breathe a little easier when the huntress was out of the way and Veda couldn't blame them. It wasn't just the threat of violence that came with every dart of Andruil's yellow eyes. It was more than that. Veda recalled the first time she'd seen Corypheus and how her eyes had fixed on the shards of red lyrium jutting from his twisted face. Andruil showed none of the magister's deformity, but she provoked the same creeping sensation of rot and ruin, a corruption that would poison everything living and stir the dead from their graves.

Even Mythal seemed to need a few moments to recover before turning the full weight of her attention upon Fen'Harel and Sylaise.

"Sylaise is right. Dread Wolf, your presence disrupts the peace of this place."

Sylaise assumed a self-congratulatory air. Her prim mouth acquired the faintest hint of a smirk.

"Don't start celebrating yet. I said he was disruptive, not that I intended to make him leave. As it happens, I'm in a generous mood."

Fen'Harel held his cards closer to the chest than Sylaise had done. He didn't smile – just folded his arms together, squaring his shoulders and widening his stance.

"You will be peaceable here and like it," Mythal told him. "Do so, and your precious slaves may have their freedom...if they are bold enough to claim it."

At this, nearly every slave rushed across the ballroom to fall in with Fen'Harel's company. The outrage among the nobles was evident. They murmured and complained among themselves, but none was foolhardy enough to openly contradict Mythal's word.

Sylaise bristled with anger. Even the flames on her dress seemed to flare up and crackle.

"This is a mistake. You shouldn't encourage this subversion."

"Why not?" Mythal gave a soft chortle. "It amuses me. Whereas the word 'should' should be stricken from the language. It is a dull word and you should not use it, my dear."

She laughed at her own joke. Many of the nearby nobles feigned laughter as well, to avoid giving her offense.

"Mother, if you're trying to make enemies..."

"Enemies? I love enemies. They're more loyal than friends, more dedicated than family. With a good enemy, you always know where you stand. Not so with allies who smile to your face and sharpen knives at your back."

Mythal turned, looking out the ballroom doors into the garden. Veda wondered what she saw there to distract her. Although she managed the conflict with aplomb, she seemed preoccupied, as if her mind were wandering.

"Now I take it this is settled and I may enjoy the rest of my evening in peace? Good."

Mythal didn't wait for an answer. She turned on her heel and walked away, the crowd opening a wide path wherever she stepped. Strolling into the garden, she disappeared among the hedges and trellises.

Fen'Harel sauntered over to the band, whispering a few words, and all at once, they struck up a raucous victory song. He went back to conferring with his lieutenants, apparently oblivious to the way the rest of the ballroom was watching his every move.

Veda turned to Solas, feeling ever more anxious. "You aren't going to...harm the nobles, are you?"

He shook his head. "Not here. Not now. Arlathan was negotiated to be a city of peace. Admittedly, as a young man, I thumbed my nose at the treaty, but I wouldn't violate it. The punishment for such a crime would be grave indeed."

Fen'Harel took a step back from his followers, his lieutenants saluting him as if to confirm that their orders were understood. He rushed out the garden doors, following the same path as Mythal.

Solas clasped Veda's hand, leading her in swift pursuit. "Let us follow. More will unfold."

They shadowed Fen'Harel along the garden path, past statues of archers and marble halla, past sundials and a gazebo where a couple embraced in the shadows.

An owl hooted in the trees. Did that mean Falon'Din was near? Veda had not seen him at the feast. Nor had she caught sight of June, Elgar'nan or Dirthamen, the Creator whose markings had once been etched into her face.

Did she want to see them? Sylaise had been vain and petty, the preening daughter of powerful parents. Andruil was blighted and psychotic. Veda had less time to size up Ghilan'nain, but her immediate sense of the situation was that the so-called Mother of the Halla was Andruil's chief enabler, a cold and calculating presence, not the innocent waif enshrined in myths. And yes, while Veda felt a natural protectiveness towards Fen'Harel, it was clear to her that he was no misunderstood hero either. As a younger elf, Solas might've flown the banner of a just cause, but he'd still been a scornful know-it-all who took palpable delight in sowing chaos, likely as much to alleviate his boredom as to spread freedom. Overall, the Creators weren't an inspiring group – and what if these were the most reasonable ones? If so, she shuddered to think about the others.

Fen'Harel stopped at the opening of a hedge maze, craning his head forward to listen, seeming to scent the air. The Dread Wolf must have sensed his quarry there, because he stalked into the labyrinth. Solas and Veda trailed behind him.

"Why is he going after her?" Veda asked.

"He's concerned. He wishes to see her. Causing a disturbance about the slaves provided him with a plausible front for being there. Anything else might have aroused suspicion."

It was peculiar hearing Solas speak about himself in the third-person, as if he and Fen'Harel were two distinct beings. Were they so far apart or was this distance a defense mechanism, a way of disassociating himself from another self that was frighteningly real, too much a part of him to be acknowledged?

"Suspicion? From what quarter?"

"From all those who watch and wait for a moment of weakness."

Fen'Harel rounded a corner and they heard him give a choked cry. By the time Veda and Solas entered the clearing, he'd climbed into a fountain at the center of the maze. He lifted a body out of the bloody water and gently, reverently, set it on the ground.

It was Mythal. Her throat was slashed open. Her drenched corpse had been stabbed at least a dozen times, in a mad frenzy. She stared up at the night sky with glassy eyes, lifeless.

Fen'Harel knelt beside his friend, his face a mask of horror. He cast healing magic over her wounds, although he must have known it would do no good.

Veda felt Solas shivering beside her, reliving the memory. She wrapped an arm around him. It did little to warm the chill in his bones.

"You tried."

"It wasn't enough."

Before them, Fen'Harel broke down into sobs. He threw his head back, giving a howl of anguish. His hands tore at his beautiful hair. Bending forward, he whispered something into Mythal's ear.

"What did you tell her?" Veda asked.

"Suledin, lethallin. Ar tu na'lin nan."

She understood his words: _Endure, kinswoman. I will see your blood avenged. _

Fen'Harel searched Mythal's body. He removed an amulet from her neck, then struggled to slide a ring past the knobby knuckle of her finger. He was forced to dampen the clammy skin of her hand before he could slip it off.

Rising to his feet, he searched the area with a feverish intensity, scouring the grass for a weapon or anything the killer might have left behind. He circled the fountain, examining foamy water still tinged pink with blood.

After that, Fen'Harel poked around in the hedges, searching for possible hiding places. He found nothing, yet amid this frantic activity, Veda saw his brow furrowing, his lean face taking on a look of hawk-like focus and she was certain his mind whirred with ideas. When his hand rubbed the scar on his chin, Veda knew he was considering a strategy. When his hand dropped to his side, it was clear to her he'd dismissed the notion. It felt like clairvoyance, but Veda hadn't learned to read minds – she'd just learned to read Solas. The mannerisms of his younger self were virtually the same, especially when alone and in distress.

Sighing, Fen'Harel sat down on the rim of the fountain and dipped his hand into the water, washing the smears of blood from his face, neck and chest. He took off his jacket and folded it over his arm, concealing the stains of gore. The bottom half of his pants were still damp from the fountain, but the material was dark and clingy, unstained by blood. Once he was done, the changes in his appearance were hardly noticeable and only to those who knew what they were looking for.

Fen'Harel lifted Mythal's body and stowed it under the thickest section of hedges. When it was out of sight, he checked himself again for any traces of blood, examining his fingernails, the ends of his hair, the bindings on his feet.

At last, he seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and raked his hands over his face. The motion was savage at first, a punishment, but gradually, it became softer. The creases between his eyebrows smoothed. The tightness in his jaw eased. When his eyes flashed open again, their once hunted expression had given way to the cocky assurance he'd shown earlier in the ballroom, when the night was still young. When he began to walk back through the maze, his gait was still stiff and self-conscious, but by the time he emerged from the cover of the hedges, he'd fallen back into his usual stride.

Before he re-entered the banquet, Fen'Harel paused at the door for a moment, a dark silhouette against the celebratory glow of the ballroom. He glanced back, as if in one last, desperate appeal. From inside, someone shouted his name and he turned, plunging back into the thick of the party.

Tears glinted in Solas' eyes.

"You think me a monster."

"I don't."

"Then what do you see? What else could you believe, after that display?"

"I think you considered the situation," she said. "You knew the political climate was against you and that, if you revealed the murder, you would be the first one Sylaise would blame. There was the possibility of more violence. You wanted to warn your people."

Solas blinked, surprised at her assessment.

"Yes. As much as the actions shame me, they were...pragmatic. I needed to secure Mythal's artifacts and alert the priests at the Temple of Mythal. I couldn't afford to indulge my emotions, even for a dear friend. One who deserved much better."

"I'm sorry," Veda said. "I believe you when you say you were her friend."

He took a breath, as if trying to absorb her words. It was hard to tell how much got through to him, how much comfort he would allow himself. He stooped forward, cleared his throat, then his posture straightened and he resumed his guise of cool, calm rationality.

"We should not linger. There is nothing more to see here."

Solas swept out an arm and Arlathan melted into darkness.


	16. Third Dream: The Burial of the Dead, 3

Gradually, the blurry darkness lightened, hazy splotches becoming the solid forms of buildings and trees. They stood in the center of a peaceful forest village.

Veda blinked dazedly, her eyes still adjusting to the bright afternoon light. "Where are we?"

"This is my village. Where I was born," Solas said. "Hardly important, even when it wasn't a ruin, but I thought you might like to see it."

She glanced around, seeing the houses were barely more than huts. The Elvhen villagers wore fur pelts and uncured leather, simple garments compared to the spectacular fashions they'd seen in Arlathan. They'd delved far back into the history of Elvhenan now, perhaps even before the dream of empire had entered the minds of the Creators.

Solas guided her into deeper in the forest, to the edge of a sun-dappled brook.

A wild-looking Elvhen boy dashed past them, splashing through the water. Spirits flitted around him like leaves on the wind.

As the boy mounted the embankment, he spun around, his brown hair a mass of tangles, his grey eyes expectant. A white wolf appeared on the other side of the clearing and trotted over to him.

The boy stooped down, wrapping his arms around its neck, pressing his face into its thick fur. The momentum behind this embrace toppled elf and beast sideways and they began to wrestle, the boy laughing, the wolf's mouth open in a panting grin. At last, the boy recovered his footing. Away he ran, the wolf chasing at his heels.

"Wolves were my first friends and teachers." Solas smiled, basking in the warmth of the memory. "The people of the village found my affinity for them somewhat uncanny, but they honoured it also, because it protected this place."

"Did they worship you even then?" Veda asked.

"They...venerated me, I suppose. My gifts were peculiar, yet of such benefit that they could not afford to despise them, so instead, they opted to show reverence. You know how it is."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Do I?"

He seemed surprised at her confusion. "Well, yes. You're the Herald of Andraste, are you not?"

Veda gave an involuntary cringe at the remembrance of that title. It was ridiculous and she'd never be free of it. "I'm not a god."

"Neither am I."

"Alright, point taken," she said. "But you're far closer to that status than me."

"Mostly due to a few thousand years of myth," he replied. "Apart from that, the circumstances are similar enough. A being demonstrates unique abilities, ones that prove useful to desperate people. What is different is often frightening. What the masses cannot destroy, they will endeavour to explain, then enlist for their own benefit. So it was with me. So it has been with you. We are not so far apart as you think."

Did he truly believe that? In the grand scale of the cosmos, Veda found it hard to imagine she rated anywhere near the importance of Fen'Harel. An Inquisitor and an almost-god were not an equal footing, even if this particular almost-god had a tendency to dress like an apostate hobo and accidentally set his coattails afire while spell-casting. He was just being kind when he tried to efface the difference.

"It must have been odd," she said, "being so young and having followers."

"In my youth, I didn't fully appreciate the significance of the situation, nor did I take it as seriously one might hope. I simply assumed such tribute was my due. On occasion, I made petty demands for food and other trifles to test the villagers' dedication. Foolish behaviour, hardly befitting a true deity."

Thankfully, the mantle of 'Herald of Andraste' had been thrust upon Veda as an adult. She'd come to that bizarre circumstance with the benefit of years of normalcy – in other words, lots of falling flat on her butt, getting mocked or rejected, and generally having her ego punctured. None of it had been much fun at the time, but it had to be healthier than a childhood of unabated worship. No doubt, she would've become downright insufferable if she'd been born into the title of Inquisitor and grown up with people gasping and falling on their knees at the sight of her.

"Do you have a family?" she asked him. "I mean, a family beyond the Creators or the Forgotten Ones..."

Solas glanced down, giving a slight frown.

Fenedhis, Veda thought. She'd just put her foot in her mouth, demonstrating just how spectacularly un-godlike she really was. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. Maybe that was the wrong question."

"No, it was a very good question. I'm simply uncertain how best to answer." Solas sat down on the bank of the stream, seeming to ponder the question.

Veda eased down beside him. She kicked off her shoes, pulled up the skirts of her gown and dipped her feet in the cool water. The stream was shallow and she felt pebbles shift under her toes.

Solas watched her in evident amusement, then edged closer, letting his feet dangle into the stream as well.

"My origins and lineage have always been unclear," he concluded. "I'm an elf, obviously, and I remember being a child, so it's likely I had parents, although I never knew them."

Veda tried to gauge his feelings from his expression, but if he was upset at this admission, he wasn't showing it. It was difficult to miss people one had hardly known. Her mother had died of a fever when Veda was barely more than an infant. While she felt sorrow for the parent she'd never known, it was a distant sort of grief, a wistful absence, not a deep and impenetrable mourning. Meanwhile, if Keeper Deshana had died, Veda knew she'd be inconsolable.

"Did you feel very alone?" she asked.

Solas shook his head. "Not then. There were wolves whom I considered family. There were spirits such as Wisdom who gave me guidance, as parents or siblings might do. I suppose you might say even this village was my family. I stayed here, studying arcane knowledge and ritual, learning from the spirits I encountered, until I realized I would need to venture forth to acquire new knowledge and widen my understanding."

"So the story you told me about your past was true then...at least in part." That made Veda feel better. When she'd talked about her life with Solas in earlier days, she'd been so open about everything. It had hurt to think that all the history he'd shared in return might have been an artfully concocted deceit.

"I endeavoured to avoid outright lies when I could." He gave her a rueful smile. "Contrary to my reputation, I'm not a very convincing liar."

"Ha, no kidding. That 'I saw it in the Fade' excuse was wearing pretty thin at the end. Of course, you still managed to fool an organization that calls itself the _Inquisition_. We might want to re-think that name."

Solas chuckled and Veda laughed too, letting her head loll against his shoulder. His arm slid around her back, drawing her closer. Happiness radiated through her, warming her skin as much as the afternoon sun. If time decided to stop at this particular second, she thought she might be okay with that.

"I took such pleasure in our conversations," Solas said. "It was difficult to prevent things from spilling out. As an apostate in your modern Thedas, I was very much alone, more than I'd ever been before. It surprised me when you would visit and ask me so many questions. I'll confess, the fact that my interrogator was a very attractive elven woman contributed to my eagerness. I tripped over contradictions in the tales I'd spun more than once, as I'm sure you observed."

He rested his cheek against the side of her face. His breath buffeted her skin, gentle as a summer breeze.

It took her a moment to catch her breath and gather her thoughts enough to muster a reply. "I noticed a few...incongruities. I chalked up most of it to the defenses of a very cautious apostate. It didn't help that the apostate was not only cautious, but clever and engaging and well, completely different than anyone I'd ever met. I was more than a little smitten."

"And now?"

"Well, gods tend to smite smitten mortals, so I guess I'm just trying to...hurt a little less each day. I still love you."

"And you are beloved. My role in the world has changed. My heart has not." Solas sighed. "I imagine that does you more harm than help, but it is unshakable truth. "

"Thank you." Veda felt embarrassed, as if he were trying to placate her. Her gaze shifted down to the brook, water spilling over the stones. She scrunched her toes against the pebbles.

Solas cupped her face in his hands, drawing her eyes to his. "Please believe me. Please know that somewhere in the deepest reaches of the Fade, Fen'Harel dreams of you. Where I go, there will be few comforts except the memory of your face. There is no gift more profound or more precious to me than this. I -"

She stopped his mouth and those noble words with a kiss. He sighed against her lips, taking in the kiss with such hunger that she almost certainly would've tipped over if he hadn't clutched both arms around her back.

Veda drew back, her hand lingering on the back of his head. Usually, his scalp was smooth, freshly shaven, but this time, a velvety stubble teased at her fingers. The afternoon sun brought out the faint sprinkling of freckles across Solas' cheeks and the bridge of his nose and for an instant, he seemed young and hopeful, as if she'd caught another glimpse of the boy he'd been.

"Don't give me your farewells. This isn't over."

Solas glanced down, his expression pained. "It...has to be."

"No. It doesn't. My will is as strong as yours."

That made him smile, the sort of amused look one might give a kitten fiercely attacking one's ankle.

Veda glowered back at him. It might be there was something faintly ridiculous in a mortal Dalish woman claiming she could outmatch Fen'Harel, but she wasn't making a jest.

"It's true. I'm not as powerful as you, but I don't give up."

"I know. I believe it."

He kissed her again, his fingers lacing through her hair, stroking the back of her neck. "Tell me, have you kept that indomitable focus as well?"

"Keep trying me and you'll see," she said. "No more goodbyes, Solas. Every time we meet, you say goodbye and every time, you return to me."

"My resolve weakens at the sight of you, it is true, ma sa'lath. Yet there are other considerations. Ar ven Banalhan..."

_I go to the blighted place, the place of nothingness. _Veda understood the words, but she refused to hear them.

She pressed a finger to his lips, hushing him. "Tel'dirth. You and I - this story isn't a tragedy. We're going to solve this. So no more grim and fatalistic."

They'd spent too long mired in the past or fearing what the future might bring. In this moment, there was sunshine and the gentle gush of the stream beside them, the pulse of blood surging through their veins. It was enough that she loved him and he loved her in return.

Solas' resolve was weak, indeed, and how quickly he surrendered when Veda pressed him down into the grass. His hands wrapped around her waist, balancing her as she straddled his hips, the skirt of her dress pooling around them. Between her naked thighs, she felt him throb with desire. Her hips wove slow, teasing circles as she ground against him, and his lips parted, breath quickening.

Veda slid her hands under the gown's low-cut bodice, baring her breasts to him. At that, Solas seized her, dragging her down to him. His hands slipped under the rustling silk of her skirt to caress the curve of her ass, gripping and kneading the ripe flesh. His mouth closed around her left breast, gently suckling, flicking his tongue over her nipple, then softly scraping his teeth over the delicate skin. Even when subjugated, there was a wildness in him.

She whimpered, squirming against the hardness of his prick through those tight trousers and he stopped her cries with a kiss that crushed the air from her lungs. He shrugged off his jacket and she undid the buttons of his shirt, pressing her lips against each new stretch of revealed skin.

Solas sighed into her hair, breath fluttering against her cheek, tickling the inside of her ear. Veda's hands stroked across the lean muscles of his chests and shoulders. She admired the spare, sculptural lines of his body. Nothing was wasted in him; everything laid beautifully bare.

Veda shimmied down his body and undid his trousers. Solas' cock sprang free, livid, pulsing, fully erect. A drop of pre-cum glistened on the crease of his swollen head.

She ran her tongue over it, savouring the salt taste of him, kissing him softly, reverently, then taking the full length of him into her mouth. His cock struck against the back of her throat and she struggled not to choke, to relax into the sensation of fullness, as he arched into her, groaning, unable to restrain his need.

"Ma sulahn'nehn..."

"Na mi garas in arla." Veda crept forward again and Solas pushed back her gown as she spread her thighs to mount him. His cock plunged deep inside her and she rocked against it, gripping his hips with her legs, riding him as he bucked against her. "Ar tu elvarel sulahn."

"Na nuvenin, vhenan." His fingers played against her clit, sending heat and faint pulses of electricity vibrating through her, then she was the one singing, words in Elvish and the Common tongue mingling with soft gasps and moans. It had been so long, too long, what had taken them so long?

"Emm'asha. Ma'arlath," Solas whispered. His eyes were locked on her face, his gaze intense, adoring. That alone was almost enough to push her over the cusp.

"Ma revas, Solas. Ar lath ma."

There was the sound of a heavy thud, echoing as if from a great distance, rumbling through the sky like thunder. The afternoon sun darkened. Her beloved's gaze dimmed. Veda couldn't feel the summer breeze or hear the faint babble of the stream. Wakefulness ripped across the gauzy fabric of the dream.

"No, not yet."

"Something wakens you," Solas said. "Even the sweetest dreams must end. Dareth shiral, my heart."

His hands clung to her, yet even their grip was weakening. His face stayed with her until the very end, then all the world dissolved in darkness.

* * *

Veda's eyes shot open. She was awake. Something had wakened her.

"Damn it! Fenedhis!"

She sat bolt upright, scowling.

"Good morrow to you too." Dorian looked down at her, an innocent expression pasted on his guilty-as-sin face. "I trust you slept well? Sweet dreams?"

"Impossibly sweet...until somebody woke me up." Veda fixed him with an accusing look.

"Don't blame me." Dorian turned a bemused glance on Abelas.

The ancient elf ignored them, fumbling to recover his warhammer from the ground.

"After you started talking in your sleep, Abelas almost dropped a hammer on his foot," Dorian confided. "I can't imagine why. Rather clumsy of him, I'd say, for one of the glorious Elvhen. Almost as if he were embarrassed."

Talking in her sleep? Fenedhis. Double fenedhis. Since arriving at Skyhold, Veda had enjoyed the privacy of her own quarters and even on expeditions, she'd usually had a tent all to herself. Muttering confessions in her sleep was a downside to Fade-walking that she'd never considered.

"I was talking? What did I say?"

"Altogether too much," Abelas muttered, strapping his hammer to his back.

She remembered enough of her dream to know that she'd been rather...verbal in the throes of ecstasy, reeling off words in Elvish she didn't even recall knowing.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. "Now, what's that wonderfully evocative Dalish expression you taught me? 'Take the Dread Wolf by the ear if he comes'? Something tells me you didn't settle for just his ear. As for whether he came..."

Veda gave Dorian a dead-eyed glare that promised future retribution. "Remind me again: why did I teach you about my people's culture?"

"So I could turn it into filthy jokes. Obviously."

Abelas snorted. "One hopes you had the decency to inquire about Mythal before you and the Wolf set to rutting."

That was the last straw. Veda sprang to her feet, kicking her bedroll off her ankles.

"That's it. Abelas, you better say 'Ir abelas' right bloody now, because I have just about had it with your special brand of halla-shit."

For the first time since she'd met him, Abelas appeared startled. Veda thought it was a good look for him – it erased all that smug surety from his face.

"As soon as I saw Solas, I asked about Mythal," she said. "He told me she gave up her power of her own accord. She isn't using Morrigan's mother as her vessel anymore, but he doesn't think she's completely out of the picture. He thought that might give you some comfort."

"You assume he isn't lying."

"He isn't lying."

"How do you know?"

"I know. He wouldn't lie about that," Veda snapped. Of course, he could...he might. How _did_ she know? She just had to trust.

"As you say," Abelas said. Like her, he was uncertain, although his loyalties lay in another direction.

"Anyway," Veda said, "what we said or did after that conversation is absolutely none of your concern and I'll be damned if you have the right to judge me. Although, frankly, it would've been mighty nice if you'd let me sleep in for a few minutes instead of purposely dropping your hammer and waking me up, because Creators forbid anyone has a good time when you're set on being a miserable bastard."

Abelas frowned. "I see. Well, then, I'm...sorry. My remark was crass and...disrespectful. As for waking you, it was a mistake. I didn't intend any ill will."

"Alright, then. Thank you. Now let's drop it, shall we?" She glanced from him, to Dorian, who looked somewhat chastened, then over to poor Cole, who'd just wandered back into camp to find everyone in a mood.

"You're very angry." Cole's eyes were wide as saucers.

"I..." Veda didn't know where to begin. Instead, she just patted him on the shoulder. "Not at you."

"Good," Cole said.

They packed up their little camp and resumed the hunt, heading towards the section of the Crossroads where Briala's agents had last encountered the mysterious intruder.


	17. Death

**The Death card:**_ Bestride a pale horse, an armoured skeleton crosses a battlefield strewn with corpses. In his hand, a black flag emblazoned with a white flower. The conqueror reaps a harvest sown with bones, watered with blood. In the distance, a ship courses over the river, carrying the souls of the dead to new life. _

* * *

Solas awoke. The part of him that was Fen'Harel had been relegated to the past, at least for the time being. He was sprawled in his bed at Vir'Hellathan, his cock hard and throbbing under the sheets. Life often felt like a weak and watery thing compared to the richness of his dreams and this dream had been particularly...involving. It would take time to untangle himself from its grip.

He reached down, stroking a hand over his erection, imagining that Veda was still touching him. That felt good, but too soft, too teasing, and still he ached for her. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else if he didn't get this out of his system.

His solution was far from elegant. He spit into the palm of his hand, the lubrication allowing his strokes to move faster over the shaft of his swollen prick. He closed his eyes, his recollection of the dream still vivid enough that he could summon up her face and the gentle contours of her body, how her voice and her breathing changed when he was inside her.

Release came faster than he'd expected. The dream had primed him for it. His back arched, thighs tightening, his whole body shuddering, every part of him thrumming with a paralyzing pleasure that obliterated thought or memory or shame, took away everything but the fulfillment of his body's need.

The throes of his orgasm subsided. He sat up, wiping the spilled seed from the tip of his head, the insides of his legs with edge of the sheet before it could dry on his skin. He was more clear-headed now, no longer so adrift in the bliss of the dream. He needed to be Fen'Harel today. He couldn't afford to be Solas, yet, even as his erection receded and he washed and clothed himself, he was still mired in the wistfulness and regret, the crippling indecision, that were Solas' downfall, entirely foreign to the Dread Wolf.

Veda had said they weren't over. She said she still loved him. It wasn't too late. He could give up this madness and return to Skyhold, to her. He'd be abandoning his duty, making Mythal's sacrifice a needless waste and leaving Elvhenan to memory and dreams, but it wasn't as if he was new to betrayal. At least this act of treachery would be entirely his own. It would reward him with fifty or sixty years of happiness, instead of thousands of years of slumber.

He might return with her to Clan Lavellan. He had the sense that most of them were reasonable and willing to consider new knowledge. They'd been willing to reach out to the city elves of Wycome. He and Veda might make a life there. Perhaps she'd desire children – he had trouble imagining himself as a father, but stranger things had happened.

They wouldn't be able to remake Arlathan or bring back the Elvhen empire, not with the Veil intact, but between the two of them, they might be able to secure land for elven settlement. To keep it safe and to build upon it, that would be the work of generations and it would never be crystal towers or cities floating in the air, but it would be theirs.

With enough time, perhaps his immortality would slip away. He'd succumb to the slow passage of seasons and he'd no longer need to worry about how he'd endure after she was gone. It might be better than this ceaseless fight for an empire that had deserved its fate, for a pantheon of false gods who were always seeking new ways to imperil the world.

At this, Fen'Harel's voice came back to him, a cruel whisper in his ear: _You'd give up everything you were, everything you are, and for what, precisely? For love? How sickeningly sentimental. Elvhenan will be left to rot and ruin because you wanted to pass your days in transient comfort, riding halla and drinking fermented fruit juice, while the rest of the world goes to the Void. _

I'd have her, Solas thought. Perhaps even a family.

_For fifty years, you'd have her_, Fen' Harel told him. _Perhaps a little more. Perhaps much less, if you're unfortunate – as you tend to be. You'll watch her weaken and die, while you remain unchanged. After that, you could watch your children die, then your grandchildren – as many generations as you wish. The blood will thin out. After a few centuries, you'll hardly recognize them and they won't care about you. You'll be alone again, but this time the rest of the pantheon will be beyond help, beyond hope. What will you be then? A useless old apostate with some pretty stories of days gone by that no one will care to listen to, a coward and a fool. A true traitor, one who betrayed not only his benefactor, but himself and all the ideals he professed to hold._

The part of his mind that still thought like Fen'Harel made salient points, especially from a long-term perspective. Loving mortals and choosing to live among them – it would mean standing helplessly by as they suffered and died, knowing all the while that they might have enjoyed immortality if the Veil didn't exist.

Solas trudged back to the room of the seven mirrors. He would attempt the ritual again and this time, he'd draw on not only the power Mythal had given him but what he could extract from the fabric of the Veil and the Crossroads. It would be dangerous, but without the Anchor, it was his best hope.

He laid out a complex network of wards, each new one augmenting and strengthening the last, then seated himself in the center of the room, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his knees. As he closed his eyes to enter the meditative trance the ritual required, he indulged in one last rebellion.

I could give this all up, he thought. I could let it go. I could return to her.

Somehow, that notion comforted him, even as he went ahead with a plan that would part them forever.

* * *

It took Veda's party a full hour of walking to reach the place in the Crossroads that Briala's agents had described to them. The mists of the Crossroads had a way of making everything blend together.

"Are you entirely certain we aren't walking in circles?" Dorian asked.

"We're not," Veda said, although the idea had occurred to her too.

"Or if we are, it's a very wide circle," said Abelas, always the optimist.

Veda spotted a broken statue of a stone halla strangled by red ivy.

"This is new." She rested a hand on one of the statue's antlers. "We haven't seen it before."

Cole materialized beside her, quick and quiet as a gust of wind. "I have. I've seen it."

"See?" Dorian threw up his hands. "Going around in circles. I knew there was a reason I was feeling dizzy."

"That's not it," Cole said. "_You_ wouldn't have seen it. It was in my head. Vines like veins. Broken horns. This is where I lost him."

There was an Eluvian beside the statue, one of many, but this landmark made it distinct. Easy to recall, if one had to find a way back there, possibly thousands of years later.

Veda beamed at him. "You are...brilliant, Cole."

"I am?"

"Yes. Completely. When we get back to Skyhold, I'm going to get you..." Veda struggled to think of something that Cole might consider a reward. "...whatever you want."

"But I don't know what to want," Cole said.

Dorian gave a positively wicked laugh. "Oh, I can help you in that regard."

Veda looked back at him, shaking her head. "Don't. Even. Think. About. It. If Cole requests a pair of custom-made varghest-skin loafers from an exclusive cobbler in Val Royeaux made to your foot size, I will know it was the work of Dorian Pavus and I will not be amused."

"Blast. Foiled again. And it was such a perfect plan."

Veda held her breath as she lifted her marked hand up to the glass surface of the Eluvian. Would it work or would they be stuck toying with passwords, as they'd done before? As the Anchor touched the Eluvian, its entire surface lit up. Her hand melted through the glass as easily as breaking the surface of a clear, cool pond.

"Where does it lead?" she murmured.

"That, we will discover," Abelas said.

"So we shall."

Veda passed through the Eluvian.

* * *

The ritual took hold. Solas' body remained seated in the room, encircled by wards and the seven Eluvians. His mind moved on another plane, seeking the energy of the Fade and drawing it into his fingers' ends, his solar plexus, his pulse points, the center of his forehead.

This power didn't come without sacrifice, without peril. To draw so much power from the Fade meant compromising the integrity of the Veil. Even in his trance, Solas was faintly aware of the Veil tearing open around him like a ripped seam. He knew it was possible that spirits would pass through these holes, that even in a pocket dimension inhabited only by a single elf such beings might be corrupted. He didn't see them swarming around his body as he meditated, cross-legged on the floor. His eyes were blind to everything around him. If they spoke or made sounds, he didn't hear them. He heard only the buzz and crackle of static, echoes of voices lost in time.

Had they attacked him, the pain would likely have been enough to jar him back to the same reality that his body inhabited, but thus far, whatever had stirred from the depths of the Fade seemed content to ignore him. The danger was his and his alone...or so he believed.

He was gravely mistaken.

Veda stumbled out of the Eluvian, falling forward onto her hands and knees. She shuddered and shook off the pain, rubbing dirt and tiny stones from her skin.

The first thing she noticed was that she stood atop a floating mountain. At the peak of the mountain, there was a mage tower, a white spiral pointing towards the moon like an accusing finger. There was little else to see except for the countless stars in the abyss.

Abelas made it through the Eluvian much more gracefully than Veda had done. He inspected the strange landscape, his brow furrowing in thought. "This is not the Fade."

"No, certainly not." Dorian sauntered out of the Eluvian, his moustache curled, his designer wardrobe none the worse for wear. "For one thing, it's not nearly green enough."

He cocked his head back. "Cole? What do you think?"

Cole appeared out of the Eluvian. The brim of his hat brushed against the gilt frame of the mirror. "No. Definitely not the Fade. But Solas is here."

"Yes, Solas would gravitate to a place like this," Dorian said. "Good spot for hermit-ing and such. Very...empty."

Very lonely, Veda thought. It was a place where one might study and read in absolute solitude. There was also a quality of deprivation to it. It reminded her that hermits were said to exile themselves to cells, much like prisoners, although theirs was a self-imposed punishment.

"I have heard of places like this," Abelas said. "The Eluvians are said to allow for travel between many worlds. In their pride, the Creators sought not only to find new worlds, but to create dimensions of their own. Such work was in its early stages when Elvhenan fell into darkness. No doubt this is one of the remnants."

Veda was intrigued, but Dorian was positively rapt.

"Fascinating. But is it an illusion? Do such places expire when the caster ceases to think of them or do they have a life all their own? What level of mana and will is required to maintain an alternate reality? It boggles the mind."

"I'm more curious about what they wanted to create here," Veda said. "Was it going to be a world like ours or something completely different? What drew Solas here, of all places?"

"And why aren't there more nugs?" Cole said.

They all turned to look at him in bafflement. Veda came out with the question that was on everyone's mind: "Nugs?"

Cole shrugged his shoulders, eyes hidden beneath scraggly blonde bangs. "I like them."

"That's...valid," Dorian said. "Yes. Every world ought to come with those hideous little creatures. Why a world without nugs? A travesty."

Cole smiled and Veda laughed, giving Dorian an appreciative nod. His social graces had a way of defusing Cole's strangeness and turning it into something that could have been mistaken for intentional humour. Everyone's mood seemed to lift as they continued along the winding path toward the mage tower, the only dwelling in sight.

Veda found her steps quickening as they neared the mage tower. Her pulse pounded in her ears. She broke into a run, reaching the tower door well before any of the others. She pulled on the handle.

Against all expectation, it swung open. Solas hadn't bothered to lock it. No doubt he thought it an unnecessary measure when he was alone, with a whole dimension of space-time all to himself.

Before her, a narrow flight of stairs spiraled upward. Veda dashed up the steps, barely feeling them under her feet.

On the second floor, there was a bedchamber, simple in design yet scrupulously clean and orderly. On the floor above it, a cozy library. Higher still, a room full of magical objects and curiosities.

Under normal circumstances, Veda would have stopped to poke around the library or to investigate the delightful hoard of treasures and oddities grouped together in one place. Under normal circumstances, any of these rooms would have merited more than a cursory glance, but these were not normal circumstances and there was one sight that she desired more than any other.

More floors, more empty rooms. At last, Veda reached the seventh floor, the pinnacle of the tower.

A Despair demon greeted her at the landing. It gave an ear-splitting shriek, lunging forward and pushing her.

Veda toppled back, grabbing the banister and holding on for dear life. The demon's claws tore into her robes, slicing skin. Blood streamed down her chest.

She kicked the creature, fumbling for her staff, as its hideous mouth descended towards her, slavering tongue and gnashing teeth, hot breath that smelled like rotting corpses.

At last, she managed to pull her staff free from its sling. It struck the demon's head.

The creature started back and Veda hit it with a barrage of arcane energy that knocked it back against the landing.

Veda solidified her stance, flames shooting up from her hands.

Too stupid to retreat, the demon regained its footing just long enough to see the fireball flying towards its chest. Its withered flesh burned as quickly as a pile of dead leaves, but the smell was far worse.

Of course, there were plenty more demons where that one came from. They circled around a wide green rift at the center of the room.

Underneath the rift, Solas sat, motionless, his spine straight, his cupped hands resting on his knees. His face was turned away from Veda, towards a semi-circle of seven Eluvians, but he appeared unnervingly serene for someone surrounded by Fade spirits run amok. All the same, her heart raced just to be near him. Soon, he would turn and see her. She would run to him and he'd enfold her in his arms. There would be explanations, apologies, a reconciliation. Everything would make sense again.

"Solas?"

He didn't answer. The demons, however, were quick to notice her.

"Solas, I'm here. Please. Look at me."

The seated figure was silent and still as a statue, even as the demons moved to attack. Veda frowned, disheartened. Why didn't he turn? If he was unhappy to see her, the least he could do was admonish her.

The wards around him indicated he was in the midst of a ritual. She'd read about instances where powerful mages went out-of-body when they were channeling energy into complicated spells. If Tevinters had accomplished such feats in modern Thedas, Elvhen had probably mastered the skill a few millennia earlier.

Dorian appeared at the top of the stairs. "I see you've been having fun without us. Where's the rift?"

Veda pointed. She had a moment to catch his reaction before a Desire demon rushed her and she had to devote her attention to slicing its head off with her spirit blade.

Dorian sighed. "Do you ever get sick of killing demons?"

Veda could tell by the flash of light and the rasping sounds that followed that he'd just put down one or two.

"I don't like killing at all. Unfortunately, I do a lot of it."

"But demons are particularly tiresome, I must say." Dorian lifted his voice to a shout. "Solas? Are you in there? Be a decent fellow and stop inflicting us with these demons, will you?"

"I tried already." Veda dodged a Rage demon's grasp, beating it back with her blade. "He can't hear us."

She refused to entertain the idea Solas might recognize their voices and choose to ignore them. She'd fought so hard to find him. He wouldn't deny her now...would he?

Cole and Abelas were quick to join them in the fight. Abelas battered an arcane horror down with his warhammer, while Cole seemed to be everywhere at once, a flicker of daggers and a puff of smoke.

Veda thought they had the situation well in hand... then the rift convulsed and out stepped a Pride demon, by far the most massive she'd ever seen. It dwarfed even the monstrosity they'd fought in Solasan's inner chamber. The floor shook with its footfalls and she wondered if it would cave in under the weight. When it laughed, the entire tower seemed to rock with the sound.

Dorian's eyes widened, his mouth gaped and even his moustache seemed to droop. "Even _I_ don't attract Pride demons like _that_."

"You aren't the Dread Wolf," Abelas said. "You've never held the power of the Creators in your hands."

Cole's pale face turned positively ashen. "It doesn't want us here. It wants us to leave. Now."

The Pride demon swiped its claws at them, sending Dorian reeling. He slammed against the wall before anyone could catch him.

"Dorian!" Veda darted to her friend's side, fending off the creature's fists. Abelas stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her and together they pushed the demon back a few steps, enough to give Dorian a chance to recover.

Cole was the next to fall. The demon flung him from side to side like a ragdoll and tossed him on the ground. Underneath his crumpled hat, Cole gave a heartrending whimper, then seemed to lose consciousness, which was probably a mercy.

"Fenedhis," Abelas snarled. He shouted at Solas in ancient Elvhen, urging him to awaken, but to no avail.

The demon kept coming and all the Sentinel's strength and all Veda's magic seemed to do little to faze it. Its spiny carapace deflected most blows and few spells had any effect. Fire barely seemed to

warm it. Ice just gave it a thicker casing of armour. An electric shock that would've felled a giant was barely more than a jolt to this terror.

Veda's well of mana was growing shallower by the moment. Soon, she wouldn't even be able to summon her spirit blade.

"I can't keep this up," she warned Abelas. "I'm going to move left. With any luck, it'll give chase. If so, you flank it."

From the corner of her eye, she saw him nod his understanding. That was all she needed. She drew the demon's eye and fled.

It grabbed for her and missed.

Veda kept moving, staying just slightly outside of its reach, coaxing it into position. Her mana was regenerating. She could feel it flooding back into her and with it, her confidence returned. She turned to draw her spirit blade and that's when the demon's fist closed around her.

She stabbed at it with her blade, even as it lifted her high into the air. Her blade gouged into its face, yet even this barely left a mark.

The demon's fingers crushed around her and Veda screamed, hearing the crunch of bones inside her. The pain was excruciating and she was almost grateful when her body went limp, when she ceased to feel or think or even to struggle against what was inevitable. Her heart fluttered inside her chest like a frightened bird, then it became very heavy, like the rest of her, sinking down into a vast darkness that resounded with a final question:

_Why, vhenan?_


End file.
